What's the word for someone
who stares long into the morning,
the same sky, white, like a flag of surrender
pulled taut,
and there, that's me
next to the path,
he who tears a hole in the earth
and cannot stop grieving?
Plan B was just to live my life
silent and breathing,
empty, clean of secrets,
trying to figure out what bird
was calling to me and why,
before all I knew took flight,
and I remembered
you were dead all over again.
Funny thing about grief, its hold
is so bright and determined like a flame,
like something almost worth living for.
—Cento composed entirely of lines from Ada Lemón's
collection "The Carrying," Milkweed Editions, 2021
