a work in progress}
this fierce-toothed loss has climbed into my body, found its way to where my voice lives, deep down into the alveoli that allow my breath to arrive and leave
—the whisper of membranes have yielded to a cough.
sleep is a shy friend.
my words are somewhere else, only the most basic ones have remained behind.
still, my eyes are stubborn scavengers, and my ears still listen for the blackbird as it settles in for the night.
© Liezel Graham 2025
it is three weeks tomorrow. saturday is my mom’s birthday. her ashes will be available for collection.
we arrive. we try to make sense of this life with an assortment of tools that no other person gets in precisely the same manner. we spend our lives trying to find love, be love, or run away from it. it happens. then we leave. some of us are left behind. it is not our turn, yet.
we still get to listen for the blackbird’s song, still get to make toast, brush teeth, make phone calls, tussle with endless red tape, do life.
grief is fierce thing.
x
liezel graham 