My grief is a hollow
A feeling that rises.
A spot on the chair, waiting for me to sit.
Other times, it darts, wild attack from around the corner.
Hell from on high. M e r c i l e s s.
Me sobbing — hideous, maudlin.
It has tender moments, too.
The gentle prodding of memories during sleep.
Soft purrs. Voices. Scents. A taste on the tongue.
It’s true what Daddy says.
The dead N E V E R leave us.