I’m making myself do this, no matter what. I can barely think, I can’t stop crying, and I’m going to write a poem no matter what. It might as well be called “What the Fuck Kind of Universe is This?”. My dear friend Lorie, the one I poemed for two days ago, was killed, along with her husband, in a motorcycle accident yesterday. The “stages of grief” are bullshit, I looked that up. We don’t move through stages. We just get hit with them like big cresting waves, whenever our brain chemistry fires in any random pattern, spurred on by memory and denial.
I’m heartsick. I hate this. I want them back.
I’m struggling the most with the words of her most recent blog. I cannot reconcile the last post, about the big lesson of surviving cancer being to do what you want to do, without hesitation, if you want to ride a motorcycle then do it, with what happened yesterday. I’ve heard the phrase “cruel irony”, but I never fully understood the “cruel” part until now.
I don’t know what this is going to be. I know it won’t be what I want it to be, because of this wild grief, but I have to do it, and if it sucks, I’ll do it again tomorrow.
It Comes in Waves
which is a cliche, but it is one because it is true, this shock crests and the sorrow crashes on the sands of my heart, and the top of the waves are named FUCK THIS UNIVERSE, and I AM MAD, and I HATE MOTORCYCLES, and the troughs are called SHE WAS CROCHETING A BUMBLEBEE COSTUME FOR HER DOG MAGPIE, and SHE HADN’T YET LEARNED THE GOLDFINCH WASN’T IN THE PACKAGE and WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO THE ANIMALS. They go from why, why, why, to how in the fuck in this kind of world, to NO, to numb and dreamlike, to restless and pacing, and then back to WHY. Grateful is in there too, but it feels distant under the loss. Aren’t we all lucky to have known a friend who was crocheting her dog a bumblebee costume? Yes, somewhere in my mind I know that is true. Somewhere I know there is small relief in the the fact that they travelled together, and maybe I’m grateful she read the poem and felt loved, and maybe another day it will feel less skimpy, maybe tomorrow all that will feel as important as it is. But right now I just have to say,
What the fuck kind of universe is this anyway?
That’s all I can do right now. Night, poemfriends.