Lisa l. Weber
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