There is a heaviness to the sediments of grief, when pain is a river that will not wash away. Tell me, where is the brittle comfort in this well-lived hell? When I’ve heard my sibling bones crack and sensed their spine twisting back on itself ? So I make my home in the slope of your artery, to heal for a little while from my welcome death. It comes to me in a ripple across skin —that is laid bare and unravelled by a Janus wrens’ tempest— oh how they beat their feathery drum! It should not frighten me that there are two of me now for neither is myself. They are who once was and who never might be. From their shell I have knit together this misshapen child of mine and coiled it in dread as all righteous mothers will do. Yes, I’d better learn that disbelief is a potent drug too. You know, a broken mind—barely woken—doesn’t know itself. Nothing but a thoughtless bird with edges still soft in trusting bliss. It basks in numbness until its warbling cry calls to the new day’s dark tendrils. It probes the shadows, for perhaps... for perhaps today the crevices will be shallow. Oh brother, you’d better keep your self pity tonight. This I pray: take this thing from me. Cradle it in porcelain, bury it in clay. Then burn me without a casket. And just one thought’s fire sets all that is gone free. This heavy crust won’t stop the flow of life—passing is precious and once I was here. This I know: I won’t be consumed. I‘ll be breath. I’ll run like water. I’ll hold myself. And will be gone in quiet laughter.