Its hard to write a poem when you don’t feel anything
I’m not quite numb
But nor am I happy or sad
I’m just here

Its hard to write a poem when you aren’t sad
I try to describe the feeling of everything but nothingness
But all that comes out is not how I feel
I try to describe the feeling of having a ******* cloud over you
But thats not what I say
And I try to describe how it feels to have a blade across your skin
But whats comes is misplaced words

Its hard to write a poem when you aren’t happy
I try to describe the feeling of love when my girlfriend holds my hand
But all that comes out, is nothing like how it feels
I try to describe the way she plays with my hair and the love in her eyes
But all that comes out is mumbled words with a stutter
I try to describe how she lights up my day
But all that turns into is sadness

Its hard to write a poem when you don’t feel anything
When I’m as happy as can be
But I still want to cut
Its hard to write a poem when you don’t even know your own feelings

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.