Divorce

Divorce is a death, but not acknowledged as such.
There’s no funeral with beautiful, mournful music.
No notes designed to grip and resonate in our hearts,
giving rise to that onslaught of emotions
buried deep within. There are no flowers tossed
in the open pit or laid on the polished casket.
There’s no graveside marking a passing, a finite end, a definite
transition into a new emotional space.
There are no casseroles, brought by friends and church ladies
who join the succession of saddened well-wishers.
Instead, the grieving period is one of fits and starts,
a halting hatred and incompetent grief.
Not the romantic, tragic figure of literature and song,
you're simply a statistic-
an ordinary, expected statistic.
Emotional myopia grips with a mighty grasp
and a void deepens that must be filled somehow.
Responsibility doesn’t thoughtfully disappear.
It festers and gnaws at whatever emotive resources you have left
until you wonder, "Why can't I be like one of the dark creatures of the
night, who scurry furtively until darkness emboldens them to run?"

But I guess that's what I did.

{2001}