Sorrows
He weighed six stone -
The size of my daughter, aged ten -
The skin baggy on the bone,
The meat of him gone.
Death reduces, like a good sauce.
A scrawny thing, a corpse -
Carries no weight, no remorse,
No apology, no applause.
And memory, eaten at by worms,
Claws at skeletons, at the marrow;
And grief struggles to find a form,
Scraping and picking and gnawing
At sorrows.
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