Gravity is a force.
Rocks fall off the mountain
without effort, without intention.
I nearly failed geology class in college
because I had fallen so hard into love
with a handsome asshole on a motorcycle.
We rode by stone quarries where layers of rock laughed
at our short liaison and bore witness to the past, like churches
in Sicily whose current layers were built over mosques, over centuries.
Grief is a gritty tiramisu of soil and healed over histories. New
eruptions, like pimples and volcanoes, build with heat
and remembrance over old fissures, embers and ash.
Misshapen piles of snapshots, sleepless miles, and
crumpled Kleenex, these layers of losses hurt
more, echo and seep into canyons beneath.
This morning, on the sidewalk, I tripped
and fell onto my face, bruising it,
breaking my glasses. At once,
the too many jacketsontherack,
shampoobottlesnearthetub,
piles of envelopes,
dishes, phone
calls, emails,
regrets,
next
steps
triumphed fully.
Defeated,
deflated,
depleted,
I wrestled
with gravity
to stand up
and limp forward
again.