There are too many poems on the subject of sorrow.
Why pile one more on this dung heap of sorrow?
Once upon a time always promises wonder. We remember,
too late, the breadcrumb-less woods of sorrow.
You fall asleep nightly rehearsing a lie:
Tomorrow I’ll end it, my love affair with sorrow.
A woman is singing again. Who is she this time?
No matter. Her voice grinds the whetstone of sorrow.
What a choice we’re given: to hold on to the dead
or let them vanish to try to vanquish our sorrow.
I speak my name out loud into my shiny new iPhone.
On the screen, Siri spells it out for me: Sorrow.