[Poem-a-Week] Hardly an Appropriate Poem for the Lunar New Year by Shikha S. Lamba
Those who do not know grief intimately
Those who do not know grief intimately cannot put their pens to paper to write about it. As we stand as observers over others, watching their gallery of despair, we can never understand enough. All we can do is bring ourselves to the edge, because no sane person will jump over the cliff to embrace another. We can only hold sympathy, such an inadequate word in such times, offer our bodies in the invisible dance of mournfulness, admit ourselves as temporary visitors in their purgatory. Some observers might say, they are praying for some insight. Asking the gods for a sneaky glance into what their own personal bereavement might look like, to better comprehend another’s. As for me, let me be naïve enough to say this - this is how I want grief to make its self-known to me, like a dark room with a dim night light and a revolving door to the world outside. Like a transitory buzz of anguish fluttering close enough, never touching. Like a soft hum against the grass of my skin, echoing shallow and ever so delicately – so I remain intact inside. Maybe my prayers for those in grief can be this naïve as well, while their agony makes contact with every inch of their skin - Let them remain intact, please let them remain intact inside. previously published in Usawa Literary Review (May 2023)
