on being a vessel

written 1-29 to 1-30-12


grief
falls through me,
as sand through the sieve,

and i find
that
some of it is
of a larger grain
than i expected.

it gets caught there,
above my diaphragm.

or maybe i cradle it there,
righteous in my suffering.

either way, some of it sticks,
clumping and riddled with pebbles,

stuck
in the sieve
of my heart,
until i let loose
the flow of fire water,
relax the weave
of my soul,
and let it go.