March Forth

by Christopher Stolle

(for Dad [died March 20, 2010], Grandpa Mathews [died March 28, 1996], and Grandpa Stolle [died March 22, 2012]) 

Grief is a wound
you keep bandaged,
the damage never healing,
never becoming an afterthought,
always a lingering presence,
a fierceness unyielding,
like a tyrant bellowing
for more destruction,
never getting enough.

Grief is a punctuation mark
that many neglect,
the words jamming,
the meaning as confusing
as jumbled letters,
the oral tradition quiet
when thinking about
those who are gone,
the stories now hidden.

Grief is a reminder,
the memory twisted,
the landscape upside down
and constantly rotating,
the feelings trying to hide,
the visions misleading
and unbearably motionless,
a hope buried deep.

Grief is a songbird
tapping on my window,
my father in disguise,
the reincarnated cardinal,
the song unknown,
the melancholy notes,
the crashing into glass
an ominous crescendo.

Grief is a passage,
an endless journey,
the roads to reuniting
are cul-de-sacs and dead ends,
the construction increases,
the miles stretching
like vulture wings,
the need to keep moving
an important step forward.

Christopher Stolle has been published by Indiana University Press, Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra, Coaches Choice, Tipton Poetry Journal, Flying Island, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Alembic, Sheepshead Review, and Plath Poetry Project, among others. He lives in Richmond, Indiana.