Concerning the book that is the body of the beloved. By Gregory Orr
All that sorrow. You filled the sink with your tears, filled the tub even, and it seemed then you could change. The ocean could add to it. Pull the plug. No more blubbering. Tears don't bring the beloved back. Try words, maybe they'll work. Since time began two schools of thought.
Weeping and words, sorrow and song. Words begin in weeping, but they're, transfigured somehow. They have grief still inside them, but outside they shine.
Rain last night. Leaves in the street. I look up. The tree is full, not a sign that a single leaf is missing. Poem and the book that seems a lie. That offends your suffering, tear it out, throw it away. No harm done. Tear them all out. Grief can be that deep they'll return when the time's right. They'll bring the beloved.