The Grief Cycle

Or, A Poetry Collection on the Five Stages of Loss

Denial

Stage One

The rocking chair creaks
as you sway back and forth.
The wind chimes ring
like a church hymn chorused
by the choir, commemorating
the dead. Your hand reaches for his,
only to graze bony fingers
that disintegrate into ash.
You gather a pile in your palm
and place it next to you,
pretending he’s there while tapping
your foot like a pianist.
You watch the sky turn peach
while plucking daisy petals,
repeating,
He loved me, he loved me not,
with the same imprint,
the one you hope for,
always on the last petal:

He loved me.

---

Anger

Stage Two

Curling your fists
into tight balls of fury,
you slam your knuckles
against the concrete,
enraged by Satan’s wrath,
struck by Zeus’ bolt,
electrifying your amygdala
and bulging your veins
like water canals irrigating
your temper, soaking the land
in gasoline and dropping
a match, feasting your eyes
on the grass set ablaze.

---

Bargaining

Stage Three

The car dealer stares at you
with empty eye sockets,
scratching his skeletal temple
with the scythe used to reap
your beloved's soul.
You stare back at him,
losing yourself in the abyss
as leaden as the coffin
buried six feet under.
You wonder,
What is the price for life?
So, you hand over
your eyes for headlights,
your lungs for a steering wheel,
your ears for rearview mirrors,
your heart for the engine.
His laugh, piercing like a rosebush thorn,
says it all:
trading a used automobile
for another used automobile
is no bargain.
So, you pull out a gold coin
and slip it into the slot machine,
pulling the lever and watching
the parade of colors before
three apples appear on the screen
with the seeds spilled out like raisins
and you realize your luck has shrunken
to the size of a maggot
feasting on a slab of ribs,
and the poison tears at your throat,
opening wide like a circus tent
welcoming in the crowd,
the eager crowd awaiting your act,
the act in which your heartless body
tugs an organic car with a rope
between your teeth.

---

Depression

Stage Four

Your bloodshot eyes
crust around the edges, sticking
your eyelashes together like glue,
freed only by the flood
that slithers down your cheek
and plummets into the bath water
where your weightless body,
a knockoff Noah’s Ark,
struggles to stay afloat
amidst the rough waters.

---

Acceptance

Stage Five

The taste of salt
swirls on your tongue
as the waves thrust you
beneath the surface,
past sand and shore,
where Atlantis meets your gaze,
the lost city,
a sublime utopia
of fallen statues and jeweled treasures
buried under kelp beds and coral branches,
which your fingers pry away,
unearthing the body
of your father, wrinkles creasing at his lips
like strips of seaweed, and you smile,
noticing his fingers intertwined
with your mother’s like two seahorses
linking their tails together,
and you exhale bubbles of blues,
soothed to know that they made it
to the promised land.