easier than grief

    rain would be easier than grief
    because its cast away to soils
    that want to dry and be reborn.
my tears are so much a part of me
that my throat is a white-knuckled fist
clenched around a marbled breath
    that my lungs can no longer grip.
the rock of my heart has no way to beat
    so that my temples ache from my chest.
and my eyes burn with the coals of a life
that used to flare like a sun

    snow would be easier than grief
    because its touch, which chills, then burns the skin,
    is ice on a pond: superficial.
    cracked by a word, broken by touch.
the cold in my heart extends to my hands
so that they are blind on the ground.
it freezes my face
so that my parted lips, which try to form words,
are caught as a gulf on a glacier.

    storms would be easier than grief
    because they rage in exultation.
    they draw out the fierceness of the world
    and fling it around like laundry.
my grief can't rage, can't fight, can't fierce
its way out past the bones of my body.
no sound drowns out the ache in my throat and eyes,
no dreams bring true sleep: no touch, relief.
only the ache, ache in my throat and eyes,
like a mountain slowly cruching down
on whats left of the heart beneath it.

death would be easier than grief
    they speak of doorways, of hidden gifts,
    the speak of lights and gods and heaven.
    and in their stupidity, the speak of time
    as it flows like a thickening quilt
    to comfort a night of chill.
there is no time in grief
there's no gap between then and now.
only the touch of the wind
on my salt-tightened cheek
reminding me again and again that
the moisture isn't rain.