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Poetry: mourningweeds


by Beth Elderkin

There are no stages of grief.
Now, it is a circle. Rings of light.

Within the confines of space,
— the space you taught me —
I call out to my previous self
who already knows what I am going to say.

Don’t do it. (Love is not worth an expiration date)

I do not listen;
Have not listened;
Will not listen.

My mind is a repeated set of images
of you collapsing,
again and again and again and again.
I do not stop this. You do not let me.

I run with you. All of you.
Passing by as my feet lose strength.

The circlet I tattooed around my finger
now comes off with water
and is no longer tax deductible.

I am a silence making too much noise.

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