And when it was over

I wondered how long

i would be immersed in that warm and familiar

feeling of loss. it seeps into me.

it never loses its density

can’t dilute it

even with the tears it sheds.


the tides come and go

and the moon and sun cycle in and out

but they come back

people and things frequently don’t. they go into a dust heap

of lost stuff some where out in the midwest, perhaps, or the other side of the world


they could also be right around the corner in full living color but i don’t see them


once i lost a brother for good

he went into an other life or world from this scarred one of wounded

and wounding people.

this foggy life this hazy world

the days and nights gray and black


i lost a cat

and then a school

and a piece of jewelry i loved a cottage where

i lulled in the summer’s sun in childhood

lost that too, two more cats

and now i’ve lost a house and another among the men, who’ve left or been taken

or been banished by my self


did anyone tell you that’s what life is a procession of losses and

jumping to stones in succession. don’t slip on that mossy one

or skip the shiny one

no telling what you’ll miss

or what will get broken or scraped or burnt or blistered, scarred by the scratch of a low hanging branch

what twigs or soggy weeds you’ll pick up

between your toes or around your neck, and you’ll have to carry them with you


the rest of the way.


Siobhan Hansen

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