The griever

At the bottom of your grief
there are sediments you never knew
you would be capable of, like
the trickle of tears dipped in a flash of  voice

turning the night into a festival
of colorful song and stale,
malfunctioning clocks that point
towards more tickets for old watchtowers

at the bottom of your grief lies
all the little lies you tell yourself
like, we will come again as flowers
that our bodies will house the stupor of a bird

coming home, thirsty and shocked
from the fall of his feathers,
there will be a return to origins
uncharted by vacancies of limbs and lumps

 at the bottom of your grief lies
some things you have always wanted to achieve
without the mercy of the sun aging your skin
like jumping into the air and expecting to meet water at your feet

at the bottom of your grief you will find
an intense longing to smell, home-cooked food
slowly baked, never fried. To long summers
smelling of strawberries and sweat

dripping to wash out the warmth
leftover in your throat for the voice you
had only knows its power at the hour
of grief of the little things

you will lose again, and at the bottom of your grief
find yourself unable to close your eyes
to the waves of restlessness, fatigued
by a grief that halts to resume again
at the bottom.