Untitled by Sam Weinberg, student

 

tell me how in truth, nothing ever ends.

          that two hands that brushed before are

          wished farewell before they leave.

i’ll remember how first the sun rose and i

forgot, at that time, that once there can be something else.

tell me now how, in truth, i can scrub and scrub

and something will come off

          -

Grief as your river including the tenderness of an embrace

          that once swayed and swayed.

Grief as catatonic;

          as catacombs that refuse my entry and tease me by

          saying that, in here, everything is fine.

​

Tell me something to remember you by.

 

Because in this life, close to this one, I have blood in my nails

          when i reach down to collect your tattered wing