[33] Grief, Mukul Dahal

This morning she drank grief like tea,
blinking away the thoughts and moments
that grew hard as rocks; she wanted
to pick them up as stones and hurl them at the wolves.

This morning, the bomb hid in the grass
like a frog; it ripped her daughter into shreds.
Grief felt like an ice hardened round her breasts.
Her heart lost a leg, then she had to be on crutches.

This morning grief pulled her eyes and
sealed her mind. Grief drank her blood.
Grief transformed her into iron. Her fingers
looked like knives and she looked like a sword.

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