A Spell to Banish Grief

 

Only when you wake to a fistful of pulled 

hair


on the floor beside your bed and, from a 

glance,


can guess its weight, when you study dried 

tear


streaks on your cheeks like a farmer 

figuring out


where the season went wrong, when a 

friend calls


out your name three or four times before 

you know


your name is yours, when your name fits 

like clothes


you’ve suddenly outgrown, when there is 

too much


of you, too few of you, too you of you, and 

the mirrors


wish all of you would just look away, when 

the clocks


can’t feel their hands and the calendars 

begin to doubt


themselves, when you begin to agree with 

the glares


from mirrors but your reflection follows 

you around


the house anyway, when you catch yourself 

drunk


on memory, candles lit, eyes closed, your 

head tilted


in the direction of cemetery grass, yellow 

and balding


above what’s left of the body that birthed 

you, and you


try to remember the sound of laughter in 

her throat


and fail, only then, orphan, will I take all 

my selves


and leave.

Saeed Jones