Somewhere Between Here and There
grief is the corridor where the heart lags, the mind rushes, and neither waits for the other.
you left him.
the house disagrees.
cupboards swell and settle.
hinges stutter laughter.
doors refuse closing.
he is my blood.
you—trespass.
a key i never named but
carried.
the gifts remain.
cardboard throats
swelling shut.
boxes holding their breath,
a choir gagged
in dust.
not weeping.
grief is the table
dragging itself an inch
to the left.
the lamp listing.
air, miswritten—
a draft where no window is open.
his footsteps—
iron.
iron again.
iron still.
each strike
a collapse inside him.
the timber keeps score.
so does my chest.
i wait.
for the latch to lift,
for air to split,
for your unfinished voice—
and then stop.
the room tilted.
still tilted.
© Heather Zoccali 2025
I wrote this poem from the seam between knowing and feeling — where the body refuses the logic the mind has already signed.
About the Creator
Heather Zoccali
Life is brutal. Life is beautiful. I live—and write—the brutiful. Memoir, poetry, and musings on grief, caregiving, resilience, and nature’s repair. Raw and tender, brutal and bright. An invitation: live brutifully.
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