“Between Grief and Nothing” by Linnea Nelson
What interests me takes place in the interval
between two people.
For example, one half
inch from your human body,
I can feel the heat of your life
without touching you.
Nothing I learned in school
is as essential as that.
Or that the reverse is true.
Or that, between grief and nothing,
there is a broad, bright space.
What happens to me alone
never seems important. Last week,
the dusk draped heavily
on the valley was beautiful,
but I was alone when I saw it,
and I have forgotten everything
but that it happened.
No detail remains.
The scent of hibiscus is sweet,
but I cannot explain why, and it doesn’t matter-
not the why, not the not being
able to explain.
One exception: The night
I stood solitary in the yard, the stars
pressed like bold blessings against the dark,
as vital as any possible light.
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