For when my
hands grasp at
the secret soaked
silk sheets,
and trace
coolness up
to the warmth
of where
the sweltering
Texan sun beats.
Thoughts haven’t
slept silent
and naked in days.
Almost years.
I am relearning
facts about loss.
How to allow grief
to sit at a nightstand.
Birds call their beloveds
in adjectives. No cryptic
verb or noun, only how,
when. Purple grackles
tweet their morning
song in a triumphant
display of splendid,
eternal devastation.
I liken myself
to grief cardinal,
humming an elegy
solo as I go.
Can ache’s whisper
land a description?