Texts Sent in Grief

Texts Sent in Grief
For Abuelita, Oliver, Jesus, and Grandpa

from: 8581234567@vtext.com
to: Manny, the temptation is 2hurry,
busy myself 2crowd out the
still moments: like havin
2wait 4 this lecture 2start.
I fear them because they brighten up
the scars of my heart, revealin
their weight (u get me?) Instead
of just coverin it up with Spotify,
Im tryin 2find it is a dog, ferocious
if u run from it in fear, friendly
if u greet it calmly, head-on.

But how to weigh a heart?
Is it weighed by memories of the
lost? Or by the cares of the future?
Or worries of 2day?
Or doubts? Or pains?
Or merely an accumulation of life’s
shit? As a wanderer through the dark
thoughts of worthlessness and suicide,
I know a weighted heart is a workin
heart; a broken heart is a beatin heart.
I fear not the day where these deaths
give me pain: the remorse of a good
bye or bittersweet memories. Im tryin
2fight against a calloused heart.
These layers, grown for protection
against pain, also stunt joy. 2scrubbit
clean, dammit!!! 2mourn! Cuz
the heart that can pain, can also joy.

to: Clay, the book says, it is not
good for man to be alone. It seems
2have nothin 2do with sex, everything
with luv. Bangin my bed never
helps. 2be fully known; 2fully kno.
U kno? U feel me be4 words slip out,
be4 an explanation, just from a pain
filled quiver. The best romances
find such fellowship, but all fellowships
find such luv. 4us singles, it’s the moment
in ur car, spillin Jack In the Box
taco sauce and fry crumbs. We left crumbs
2the way of compassion;
I will be with u,
I will even get in the shit with u.

This is not just a gift from God
but God’s very presence,
2my la-ooonly soul.

to: Amiga, after that viewin,
I think I now understand the word cadaver:
a stiff, object-like, lifelessly layin
body, left like a mask from the man.
As if he was replaced with a cold
marble statue. As the statue lies
it can’t display the luv, passion,
pain that paint a face and make it
a person. I understand how a
student can dissect a body, assurin
themselves this has ceased 2be someone
or how the faith woman says
the soul has left—reassurin me
that it was never the skin, hair, eyes,
noes, beauty, pride, strength or weakness
that ever kept us alive.

to: God,
Why are U repeatin
death, death, death, death,
4x this year? Be4
she was only a foreigner,
a childhood vapor of a memory
of my mother’s tears 4her daughter,
of my father’s anger, of my desire
2cry or rage 2, but not bein able
2comprehend their explanations
of why death meant so much.
Her incompressibility
didn’t change with familiarity.
Though she steals my heart
like a lover, why is now a moment
of tears? Now a lull? Now anger?
Now confusion?
Perhaps that is inherited from Adam,
holdin Abel’s sheepskin,
lookin up, wonderin, askin,
will we ever get back to Eden?

to: Soul,
what did David see at Ziklag
when u seemed so silent?
Where did Mandela find peace
in a cell of fear and hate?
Would I find it if I could
hear the voice commandin
breathe BREATHE breathe,
beat BEAT beat?

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This is the second poem in my collection of poems Snapshots, now available on Amazon.