It’s all grief to me, the night’s hissing hours,
the watered down light just before sunrise,
the wasps chilled still in their holey nest,
their yellow and black hovering, their flight
to fallen fruit. Every translation says
the same thing in different words, the hot slap
of August afternoon, her dog listless
as dropped sock, the garbage bags of clothes
to donate, the mementos put away,
preserved for some distant future of joy,
the mason jars of tomatoes, peaches,
and jams in neat rows. It’s all grief to me.
The blind-sliced sunlight falling on her chair,
the sympathy cards. It’s all grief to me.