Some kinda everything has been building
for days, creeping in the quiet,
staring back at me from empty corners,
cluttered walkways, confused strangers,
sunshine hot, thick-damp, a musty cabin,
too short shorts in the frozen food aisle,
makeup caked on tanned faces
but it isn't even that (I was only noticing,
Why are their boyfriends in old t-shirts?).
Holding steady, looking out like a twitch-tail cat
who will not leap for that is not kindness,
but the old grief begins to spill,
its edges formed only lately
in the doing so much, in the waiting to hear,
in a tethered place of not-me-
the hanging on serene, just long enough.
It is in these slowed down days,
distractions few, duties fewer,
life's wounds begin to mend,
first with a healing crisis.