Yes, I'm familiar with
Kubler- Ross
the stages of grief,
but no amount of intellectualizing
can deaden the
pain
and knowing the inevitable
won't act as
morphine-
for us, the survivors
we, who are left behind
there is no balm
no easy
anesthesia.
Death,
suffering
is the course of all life
the destiny of all things
born
philosophers, theologians
have discussed this
ad infinitum...
Still, what words can I give
you,
widow, orphan
you, almost- mother
marred by miscarriage
and to you- writhing with disease
- to you left by betrayal
there are none-
sympathy seems
cruel
when all that is needed
is an ear,
an open heart.
And I too,
must now face this-
thrust into the ugly grip
of death
(my own mother's dying)
even through the long
lingering
the wearisome
vigil
my weeping waits-
it has not unleashed...
Numbed,
I've always held hurt
within,
stoic,
though tortured nonetheless
I'm teetering on the verge of-
a torrent
of tears.