Dust

by me 

Grief gongs

like the alarm clock going off

the morning after her death.  Presses its hand 
against your stomach when you realize  
you have woken up. It was not a dream. 
Grief tastes like morning mouth and whiskey, slick

grit across your teeth. Settles

its residue in your room, like dust:

90% comprised of dead skin.

Some mornings

you marvel at your own fat

fingers, their spring and coil, the blue

curving veins a map of a country you
knew once. Some days

your body starts running for no 
reason other than motion, shifting

muscle a joy newly discovered, and some

evenings your body forgets to be 
warm-blooded, wraps itself in exoskeleton 
instead of flesh, curling inward, 
like paper set to flames.

After she was found

hanging in her bedroom 
your body wept until every one 
of its bones rattled, and that night, when 
the white hipbone of the moon rose

above the distant hills, your body stilled
so it would not interrupt the unbounded
stillness. 

Grief lingers 
like dust motes in the air,

meets you at the door every morning 
and opens its arms. Your body falls into it

like a promise, and settles.