Loss, by Britta Benson

Another poem about grief. Doesn’t really need an introduction. Like most people, I live with grief. I have my own take on it. Here goes.

Loss

is not a lack,

a gap,

with fixed dimensions.

Absence comes and goes,

grows into a tidal beast,

famished crashing waves,

eating hearts,

licking wounds,

seeking, always finding.

Then, all of a sudden,

the angry froth subsides,

fury dries into a salty crust,

and for a while,

this quiet, chrystal grief

remains tame,

almost benign.

I forget,

it’s still sneakily mining,

eroding,

seeping,

bleeding.

I look at the photograph on the shelf.

Measures 5 x 7 inches, exactly.

Not you.

You stand beside me.

You’ve never left.

Loss uses many forms of punctuation,

but never,

ever,

a full stop.

I find that good to know.

2 thoughts on “Loss, by Britta Benson

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