In Absentia

Sometimes I wonder
if I am broken enough.
when they whisper of grief
I do not think of that
clogging of the throat.
that hollowing, caving,
yielding of the heart. that
holding of space, the crater
in the midst of lush fields.
I think of my cat, his
white and orange fur
soft as an unbroken
promise. In its folds, the
wound that curled in like
a shadow and the long drive
to the vet's office, where
anguish met us with open arms.
I did not cry when
my grandmother died, that
lovely woman that looked
for her youth in my eyes.
I watched my mother's tears
drown her lungs and nudged
at my own. wondered where
the line was, how much love
it would take, before grief
chose to show itself.

(First published in Isele Magazine)