Five of my sadder poems.
Everything was out of sync
until the sky cried with me
and I could breathe again.
I think I can escape it —
swim until I find an island,
but, it too, is underwater
on a continental shelf of grieving.
Palm trees float their fronds in prayer
to mourn the sun that never rises
when the murky sky hides stars behind it.
And this is where I live some days,
and some days this is comforting;
stretched along the greyest matter
of a melancholy beach
with waves collapsing on my cheeks.
There is a special kind of mourning felt
for that which never was.
Like a language learned
that can’t be spoken,
highlighted with tears
on unshared poems.
Like the textbook was memorized
but there is no test.
The grief of
Superstitious as a child
I thought if I behaved
or dressed a certain way
that bad things couldn’t happen,
and that I could be forgiven.
And for what? I didn’t know.
I just felt guilt, and fear and shame…
I didn’t know that grief could feel that way.
I didn’t know
that even when the grief’s collective
we still face it on our own.
When I was nine I lost my grandpa
then my grandma,
but the loss did not end there.
It rippled and still finds me here —
just as it has found us all.
In the loss of what you’ve lost
there isn’t loss more great or small.
There is no gratitude for loss,
but for ever having something
that was worth so much.
– Finding meaning
Writing and photography by: Katy Claire Funke