The trembling in The Writer

My heart; asunder.
The black goblin who weeps from the wound
and drags himself up and out with gladness.
Careful of the cracks, darling,
my grief has teeth and she gnashes.

My chest, broken open like a thing prepared
for dining on, feasting.
A white table cloth smeared with tear grease,
saltwater breath and the mortuary smell.

My anger sits boiling in the pot,
ladle it out and baste me.
I am a dry husk, brittle and unsavory otherwise.

I am the dead, the dying, and the left behind,
I am the fear, the flight and the savagery,
I am the crater left behind when everything blows up,
the dinner guest who has expired after dessert,
and sits, head lolled to the side,
as people clean up around me.

The unimaginable, and unchangeable,
what has not happened yet, and has already occurred.
The dark night that falls like a shroud,
and the next breath that doesn’t come,
the silent room that rises to a wail,
that vibrates in your ears and deafens you.

I am every mourner who laid a hand on a coffin
they picked, and found themselves unable to move away.
I am every grief stricken cemetery go-er who considered
jumping in after the casket was lowered,
but didn’t, and was bitter for it.