Because poetry too often pulls
the punch but never lies, our dog
is dying of heart disease.
Brookie moves about the house
and yard afloat in diuretics.
Her heart has grown too large
in all her briefly eager love.

The words of this poem looked black
when you began to read. Now they
appear to be a cloudy cataract blue,
like the old spoon your mother used
to make soup for you on rainy days.
The words begin to swim like little fish.

Stop it. There is no crying in poetry.
Still grief is heavier in the mind
than iron, as inscrutable
as a breeze from far out at sea.
Sorrow is starless.

Sometimes I forget why I came
to Earth at all. Surely it wasn’t
for this helpless grief. I thought
everything would be beautiful
and nothing would hurt, but
everything I love
is in a rush to be gone.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed