On Greif and Greiving

they don’t tell you what happens

when grief outgrows your body 

you become 

engulfed 

in sudden whiffs of smoke

mud-caked boots

grass stains and fish tails slapping the surface of the lake

squalling tires on cardboard driveways

nibbling inside your throat 

you try to swallow the lifetimes

but they crawl out of your belly and sit beside you

making your mouth water with sickness

they grow to the size of the room

the house

the county

you take your hands 

claw, peel, and press on 

moments, days, and years 

until you meet the size of your body