Lisa l. Weber

two poems


I raise a glass of whiskey 

to those who did not go gently

but were swallowed flailing and whole,

clawing and scratching as they went down—

fucking grief burns the throat.


Let Me Go


Can't escape grief's grasping fingers—

they snake around the heart

like tendrils of smoke from a dying fire,

like the cloud of breath from a lover

standing before you on a freezing day,

confessing they fucked your best friend.

They wrap around the arm and squeeze

as a reminder they're still there, holding on,

pulling until they bruise—

the soul left to drown

in black and blue tears.

10 March, 2021

Lisa Lerma Weber lives in San Diego, CA. Her words and photography have been published online and in print. She is a prose editor for Versification. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber