Published in Turnpike Magazine
She revels in grief; her grief is wretched
Fingertips rubbing temples, tapping on windows, hands wringing
Phone ringing, news wretched her grief does not wait: cries, ringing out
Again and again it is all-consuming. She chokes from it, , wretched
A dead bird found in the garden, the unbearable weight of hiding in the dark
A mother no longer there, mourning in anticipation of loss and hurting
Things are always lost or forgotten; her heart breaks pre-emptively and , her hands wringing
Haven’t you heard? She’s pulled apart by sadness she revels in grief.
She didn’t sleep last night; smothering her, no room for anything else
Phone ringing, news wretched , claw-like , wretched
rosiegailor 