Last Week

Don't tell me grief isn't physical.

I met him last week.

At 4am when alone I waited

For sleep's quiet invitation.

At 6am when I ran

but breathing hurt and my eyes stung

and the skies pressed down on me.

Stupid, I blamed: heat and humidity.

In snatches of sleep I dreamed of cupcakes.

Awake nothing tasted good.

Sadness stole my words.

I need them to lead my team-

to praise, encourage, correct and challenge.

Heart empty, I borrowed scraps from last season's script.

Grief sat heavy on my chest- and tight.

Like when I was six years old and

play-wrestling with the neighbourhood kids

until a bigger boy beat me and wouldn't get off.

Writhe. Scream. Struggle. It makes no difference.

Sadness has his own schedule.

He came but now he's gone again.

And I still rise to hope.