The Problem With Grief Is That It Never Lets Me. . . by Ginna Luck


Under my dress or inside of a mountain, between the bold color of my
heart and a lonely piece of trash everything is blunt and dangerous. I am
failing to see what is right in front of me. Instead of a moon halved by the
fog I see a bridge blowing apart into heaps and twists of wood. Instead
of an iced over lake I see miles of mountain road split between swamp
and a burning swirl of grass. Instead of a constellation of stars I see a man
who is difficult to love. It is just black woods out here adding night after
overgrown night into thinking I’ve never (not) loved him. To hold him
seems as unlikely as holding an echo firmly under my tongue. The sky,
from this distance, looks synthetic and mud colored, makes my arms, my
whole body ache, not for seeing clearly but from calling and calling into
wind and frozen. I remain a language hardened by wind chill. My lips spit
lonely out as a metaphor for an actual opening. And no, lonely does not
open, not in a place like this, waiting for the same hands to float back, listening
for the hard line of the horizon to answer with an entrance. Instead
of the snow there is falling shadow. Instead of sinking into sleep there is
the fog of not knowing. How far can a mind wander before it is dream
drunk and coughing up dead ends? Love is an icicle hanging in the sky I
have chosen to trust. It will glow inside and be iridescent and I will try to
hold it tight against me.


GINNA LUCK’s work can be read or is forthcoming in Juked, Gravel, Pif Magazine, Radar Poetry, Menacing Hedge, Gone Lawn, Hermeneutic Chaos Journal, and others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has an MFA from Goddard College. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband and three boys.