Grief

Loss.
Some vital piece is gone,
torn away,
and we are left unbalanced,
grieving
for what was
and is no more;
and feeling
exposed
as if there were
some neon halo overhead,
some bright pink arrow
pointing to the wound and flashing
"Damaged Goods. Damaged Goods."
Each death that we survive --
relationship, job, parent or child, breast, or limb --
a dream,
ripped from the side like Adam's rib:
seed of something new,
but still --
the scars remain.


(This poem is for Robin)

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