the outline of grief

small billows of smoke that rise up and out
from the rocket stove
before the fire takes
and when it does
the omelet sizzles and
so do the onions and garlic and
there is a goodness
to feeling the morning air
on my face while breakfast
takes its time

you’re feeling the outline of grief he suggests
but not the inside of it

get out from under the overhang
and into the inclement weather
and trudge your way to the top
(of your sorrow) and over
what do you need to pack, to shore up to get there?


tyler and i on the
bench/swing on the county highway main street
that runs through this town (of 100) that we don’t even live in
(but on the edge of)
him with his shake and me unwrapping my peanut butter cup
and it could be a scene
from some movie like
what’s eating gilbert grape
(the breeze from a passing semi
ruffling our hair
the only motion in the frame)
but instead, it is our lives
and how, even though i’ve been living on/in this farm community
for two years
there are days where i am still wrapping my brain around the fact
that this is what my life is like
(similar to the times i would bike across a bridge
spanning the widthe of the willamette river
pacific northwest air on my face and
exclaim to myself
i live in here!!!!)

sparkle-fest i leave my voice
from the greenhouse also known as the phone booth
on the phone that seems to be eternally trapped
in mercury-in-retrograde status
so that you will receive this message
complete, from beginning to end

it is the kind of moon
that pulls me off my desk-ward route
onto the dustier and dustier
gravel road
in the shred of still-lightness that
lingers in the dark-blueing sky
an hour, now, after sunset

necessity makes us braver sledge writes
about going under the river-house
to insulate the pipes

what strikes me is this
i reply about the photo of sledge on the kind of long porch
that many people dream of arriving at
after they have put their time in
to the machine of capitalism
you look like you have landed inside yourself

we are not just one muscle
i overhear liat telling the living room anatomy class
we are layers and layers and layers of muscle


2 Replies to “the outline of grief”

  1. Your writing sustains me, makes me smile and I enjoy waking to your musings often even though I do not always comment. Such a beautiful voice

  2. VICKY!!!!! you have no idea how much this feeds/sustains (nourishes! it’s reciprocal!) me. this practice feels so quiet and humble and often solitary – it’s so comforting/rewarding to sometimes get a tap on the shoulder such as this that says ‘hey, i’m here too – looking/listening/detail-collecting with you’. WATERFALLS OF GRATITUDE TO YOU.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s