tiny grief

Tiny grief the size of a hand inside
of another hand you don’t show to
anyone else.

Grief so small you’re afraid to call
it grief; the pool of liquid left from
a sweating glass,
                       only you notice

the mourning doves calling, low and
full of salt.

Call it good grief, the kind where
Reddit users say you’re normal and
the DSM-5 gives you a sticker for
knowing how to swallow.

A grief you didn’t expect. The day I
found out you died and I walked six
miles down Massachusetts Avenue
calling people who knew you,

handing them their own grief
                       through a cellphone,
blue silence hanging between us like a
water balloon on a string.

Picture yourself then the world then
the universe and what goes beyond it.

A grief made out of an extraterrestrial
Hallmark card that tells you your
loved ones live on stars and the person
who’s bought it seven times.
   A stack
of identical space-themed sympathy
cards waits at a distribution center in
Liberty, Missouri.

Imaginary grief for what hasn’t even
happened, but eventually will. The
things you can’t bring yourself to say
aloud;

tiny griefs made again & again

of every moment you felt good and
didn’t want it to stop.

Caroline Fay lives in Portland, ME with her partner and rescue dog Bandit. She uses poetry to explore topics on queerness, mental health, and love. Her work has been published in the Wellesley College Review and can be heard regularly at readings with the Portland Poet Society. She can be found on Instagram @selectivethinking or binge-watching Seinfeld in bed.