No, the pixels will not contain your grief.
There’s not an app to bear the weight you feel
Pressing on your chest. The shortness of breath
That might be pangs, or tears, or worse? (you fear),
Or the steady terror of getting news
You don’t want from a loved one you can’t hold.
What can these ones and zeroes, (vapors!) hold?
Can push notifications deliver grief
As surely as they bring you breaking news?
A post, a text, lacks the heft to make you feel
What you should, like a phone call or knock—fear
That rises fast, before you take a breath.
But these screens we trust already trace breath.
The pulse-oximeter puts a choke-hold
On his finger, grasping to measure fear,
A glowing green EKG observes grief,
Making sure to mark precisely when you’ll feel
You missed her last moment like last night’s news.
Bury the scream that comes with all such news.
Shut up! Keep silent, while you catch your breath—
How dare you show the children what you feel,
That there are things which put your life on hold.
You can’t spend many resources on grief
When you’re working hard stocking up on fear.
But you weren’t born to live in whirling fear
Of whatever is swirling in the news.
Closer in, there is more to grief than grief—
Death, yes, but missing your niece’s first breath,
Weddings with no one to have and to hold
Promising things that it’s too soon to feel.
Whatever you do, please don’t forget to feel.
Don’t let a blue glow medicate your fear.
Let your eyes, ears, nose, tongue, skin take and hold
All the wonders that never make the news.
Flex your ribcage to draw the deepest breath.
Whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for grief.
Home alone, you’ll feel all news is bad news,
As you scan for fear and hear your own breath
Craving someone to hold you and your grief.
Image: Fog and Sun, Hamilton County, Tenn., March 2020.