Dust

I’d half a mind today to sweep the sad

from these windowsills, but the photo frames

won’t let me. Strange how they seem almost glad

that grief, like dust, rests so lightly round them.

I say it dulls their shine, but unconcerned

they stand their ground, defying all attempts

to move things on. I say they should be burned

upon a pyre, or buried at great depth.

I ask them if they’ve heard of Kubler Ross,

say how I’m teetering on the very brink

of her Stage Five, that certain types of loss

are part of growth, I’m stronger than they think.

But they have set up home, they’re in denial,

and there’ll be no bargaining for a while.