Today, I cried at a funeral.

But it wasn’t sadness that did it—
Sadness lounged on the horizon
Too distant to touch.

No, it was the
White-hot, scalding of the spotlight
The eyes, the many eyes, the
Hands pressed to mine, stamping in a
“Sorry for your loss.”
A tattoo, or a brand.

And then I felt it, familiar friend:
The tightness rising like bile, wrapping
Its serpentine fingers around my windpipe,
Around my vocal cords,
Squeezing, squeezing, until nothing but a
Whisper
Remained in my chest, my throat,
My lips, my teeth.

Sadness floated in my periphery, like the
Sun, too bright for me to gaze but the
Tightness lingers close enough to murmur
In my ear,
“You should be.”