if they ask you about grieving . . .

you get to know the phrases to say:
"you don't get over it -- but you learn to live with it"
"it comes like waves; you get on your feet and it knocks you over again"

you learn to live with it but you don't want to have an "it" to have to live with
and as for waves: sometimes you want to lie at the water's edge
and let the sea do what it will

one year and eight months and three weeks have passed
and lately you've been feeling the worst is over --
and truly it is -- what could be worse than the first knowing --
but then you go to the bank to close your son's account
and in the customer care cubby you can't speak so
you just hand the woman his Death Certificate
and she, now speechless as well, grabs your hands in hers
and searches in your eyes to understand
and if compassion were capable of healing you'd be healed
then she rushes off for tissue

at last she hands you the statement of his last bank activity
which he'd not received because
where he was living when he died and the address the bank had
were clearly two different places

and you see his address which you did know once, maybe
and it's fucking FELL STREET
Fell Street, San Francisco

so if they ask you about grieving
just tell them you're doing okay
and if they wait a little, seeming to want to know
tell them about the last knock down
that will capture it

the club grows

tonight i am hit with a wave of grief.
it comes up suddenly as i'm walking the dog.
ky loved the damned dog.
i've been singing "you're all i ne-eed to get by"
badly.
thinking of sad sweet tammi turrell.
and i look up at the stars and the dark city sky.
and i just. want. my. son.
and i picture him falling backward.
and i cringe and hurt deep.
and i sob.

and i think of cees and margret and their boy.
and i think of lisa and her boy.
and i think of karen and her boy.
and i think of jean and her boy.
and i think of robin and her boy.
and i think of cee and her boy.
and i think of caroly and john and their boy.

i know of seven lost boys.
seven bereft mothers.
seven bereft fathers.
no peace will we find.