PO Box 1238, Crestone, CO 81131 | email@example.com
by Lisa Martin-Demoor
Grief I’ve sewn you this bouquet of accidents.
Grief your blackbird heart is bare.
Grief the other can’t see you. My imaginary friend.
Grief you’re the map the years made of her body, showing her where to go.
Grief you retrieve. But you only bring back the living.
Grief you’re the place love goes to, to remember its name.
What you own, it isn’t yours.
there are so many ways to say it.
There are only so many ways to say it.
Grief, what you came for isn’t yours.