Blunt

— published by Linebreak

Whoever wrote that grief
is a thing with feathers has
never touched a body, has
never spoken about their
best friends in the language
of what no longer moves.
Whoever wrote that line has
never had to grieve something,
but I’m being maudlin here.
This poem was supposed to talk about
the phone that gets replaced
five minutes before you notice
the kid on the bike, five minutes
before the police report, five
minutes before the small girl
holds up an inanimate 
object to try to explain
what she thinks death is. The
object she uses is your cell phone.
Who cares what it is. I am trying
to tell you about the flawed mechanism
of grief. I am trying to tell you that
the real sad things have no
feathers, but you won’t trust me.
I don’t know why — maybe because
what I’m saying is uncomfortable.
Listen, the person I was grieving
talked this way enough to get
himself kicked out of a country.
He hated funerals. He was blunt.

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