by Caitlin Thomson
I have laughed, looking at the San Juans, remembering the dark
stories one shares when phone lines are down,
the mirrors draped in black.
The way one confession draws out another,
beyond what any priest could stand, brought
into the light of comfortable chairs.
Too many important funerals have been missed
or never held. Loss has formed a crematorium,
all those drawers of spectacles, of green pens,
bow ties, ancestral rings, a litany of absence.
But still there are ferries we ride on,
soft serve in hand, watching for whales.
The grief that split the car in half
has led us to the sidewalk spewing
angry threats at neighbors as
if it was their fault.
The block turns out to watch
fast hands, thrusting fingers pointed
out. Blame was in the tweeting
thrush, the stray cat.
We tug at air, as if to change this
space, reform it into something
we can live without.
Read The Story Behind “Preoccupation” by Caitlin Thomson on our blog.