“Grief, when unmeasured ferments in the grout quiet, microbial and unwilling to die.”
- Poet
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The cingulate — fires — the snag — as it were — the grinder’s patient catch. A Taxonomy — of Triviality — in the kitchen lab — arrayed. In the Underworld — the Ordinary — gives way — like Salt — in a spent Broth. The Moth-chew — in the Wool-blend — the Tallow — in the Cloth. Each hangnail wound — a specimen — bared beneath the light. I have seen the storefronts fold hands — men embalmed upright. “A Micro-loss,” the Doctors humpf, already eyeing the clock. But the Blood — it knows no Magnitude. It pumps — a frantic Scale. The Vagus — a viscous Wire — frayed — the System — poised to fail. What becomes of a Small Grief — deferred. Does it crust — like a Sugared Scar. It does. Like the Pyrex you keep meaning to soak. Does it scab — a Low-grade Lesion — Thicken — like bacon-fat congealed at dawn — Cling — like mold-apricot Jam on a dulling Knife — or settle — a heavy Silt — upon the kitchen floor behind the Rubbermaid’s swollen mouth. In the grout — where mop-water darkens — by the drainboard — settling like Roach Eggs in Flour — and the day gathers what’s left. I am the Tally-maker — of the Unlived. The Self — a Pane — of trembling freezer-glass — with grease-pencil — wrapped in foil — a cold confession kept. No Eulogy — for the 10mm socket. Nor Trace — for the Tuesday in the sleet. Only the Broth-dark Corner — where the lipids skin over — and no one scrapes it clean — hunger aside. just the wild edge — of a small death — that does not — and never did.
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