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The Shape of Grief

A poem on the space left after a loss

Muddy Finger-painting by the Author (Rowen Veratome)
When you died: 

a piece of my chest - some heart,
some lung, some rib cage - was torn
away & thrown in the grave
with your corpse.
At first, that space bled. I couldn't touch my torso for weeks



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Rowen Veratome

Rowen Veratome

They/them. Perpetual student. Recovering from PTSD. Writes philosophy formally, poetically, playfully, politically, personally, with love, ad infinitum.