On Grief: Carried

Dimitri Fulconis

Dayna Weissman

Dayna Weissman

My friend hurt a little bit more last night

than usual

she doesn't hurt always

just

most of the time



Wing out, in flight, swollen. Rocked in her white cradle. On the ground. Struck down, head in the clouds.


Bright. Light seeping golden through the maze of clouds, rain like haze blurring the lines filling the spaces between tears and sweat on the angels' faces. Maybe both, probably both.


She half-hid, half lidded face behind a cloud, a deflated balloon that a child let go. That a child refused to let go.


I saw her smile once, cloud slipping by revealing a sly crescent. Another, shadow, replaced it.


It's only the sun, she said


And I said no, it's you. But she only hid again.



My friend died a little bit more last night

curled up beside

she hasn't died completely

yet


I don't think



We all stood amidst the rubble holding the beams together with our arms outstretched, gripping the floor with our toes, all wishing for it not to fall apart, for

her not to shake as if to throw the whole world off her back.


We fled to the corner where all the pain lives, no need.        It was there.


I touched the earth and asked for healing, power. Beams of peace and light and love. It takes time to heal the broken and the cracked, but our hearts are right, all cracked and broken when the earth is looking. When we look at the earth. A mirror lake. A standstill.


We stood in a kite, her at the helm. We strings pulled along, her flapping against the ceaseless storm, her lapping madly at the hurricane, trying to peace the water out with her parched tongue. Enough for a few drops and a decent night. Enough.


We were the sturdiest things in flight. Ribbons like birds tapping on window panes. Let me in. I want the food you give.


My friend fell a little bit more last night

she usually doesn't fall farther

than a tight chest

and some stomach aches

but this time, she stumbled


she even skinned her knees

a little


There she was, flowing, unfurling.


I touched the earth again, letting her pain soak in, letting the earth swallow it, absorb it, take it all away. But I saw the gaping wound. Lest we forget we hurt the world more than we remember, rooted in it.


she talked


of violence.

of her mother.

of a prison of poetry at the edge

of a cliff hiding a key to the barbwire bars.


of violence.

of us.


We had to leave. She was gonna hurt us, innocence.



Her name means gift, reluctantly given.

Never fully received.

One wants to keep for oneself. A stolen baby taken from the moon.


Now caged in a barbwire forest filled with poetry instead of wanted posters.


Foot rubbing against the other


Jagged little cries


Balled fists, body curled up in the womb of the world trying to stay safe in the red dark that eyelids make when sunlight still passes


Moonlight is softer on the eyes, it relaxes in the darkness.


hands squeezed tight eyes squeezed tight leg squeezed tight pain squeezed shut


At least it's warm

here.


I offered her tea.

She held

She


Thank you


She reached

She held out her


You don't have to be here. I know.


I offered her tea.

She held back

She

She took

She

She held back

She felt

She needed

She

She took the


She held out her

She staggered

She shot back


She





I forget.




She took the tea.




She held the cup to her face



She held the cup to her face

She held the cup to her face


She


She held the cup to her face


She held the cup to her face


She held the cup to her face



She was reading the tea leaves.

Light danced in her eyes. Moonlight, tea candles.


She held the cup to her face


She held the cup to her face

She held the cup to her face

She held the cup to her face

She held the cup to her face

She couldn't drink.



She


She couldn't drink.


She couldn't drink.

She couldn't drink. She couldn't drink.


She couldn't drink. She couldn't drink. She couldn't drink. She couldn't drink. She couldn't drink.

She couldn't drink.


She couldn't drink.


She couldn't drink.

She couldn't drink.

She couldn't drink.


She couldn't drink.     She couldn't drink.



She couldn’t drink.


She couldn’t drink.




“Work. Work!" she whispered, her hands, claws, her jaw, tight, with grief, with pain, with shame. With Shame. With Shame.  With Shame.

Shame.

Shame.

Shame.


Her face Pain.

Her face Anguish.

Her face Terror.

Her face Monster.

Her face Fear.



It's never been true.




I can't drink.


My arms and legs don't work,

they are too tired from holding the world up


Mommy issues have feelings at least.   They burn.


I can't drink.


My shoulders ache


I have to pee.



My friend broke a little bit more last night

fragile pottery, so strong

trying to hold so much of the world's oceans

it seeps through the cracks

don't you see?

Your cracks are bound with gold.


You feather-light

You breath of air

You sweet green flower stem


We can't carry for you

But we can carry you


Bird bones

Bright smile

And all


“On Grief” is an old series from Method Magazine being brought back by the Artifex. These creative pieces center upon students’ experiences in dealing with loss and grief both on and off campus. Submissions and ideas can be sent to Phoebe Liebling at pliebling@wesleyan.edu.