Diet of Grief

Death is hard to swallow,
and nearly always upsets my stomach.

The slippery truth of light leaving eyes,
the gritty reality of cooling skin,
the undigestible lump of loss and sorrow,
when swallowed, do not pass away with ease.
They leave an all-pervasive stomach ache.

I have eaten too freely of
the excruciating feast of the grieved:
bitter herbs washed down by vinegar.

Time will pass, has passed, does always pass
at the variable rate of grief-time:
4-hour days, long hours, sprinting years.

One day the death will be one whole year old,
annual feasts consumed without the lost:
Turkey, ham and beef roast,
pumpkin pie and birthday cake.

Then two, then five, then 20.
The calendar becomes the wonder page:
"I can't believe another year has passed ..."

One day a meal will not contain
a single item that the lost one liked
but only the flavors of a new life;
A dish of acquiescence, garnished well
with fruits new-ripened during days in hell.