Morsels

first day of college. i hug mom and dad 

goodbye, how fragile their bodies feel.

first boy i loved. had idaho written all over him,

long and slender legs of a runner. when we break up, 

i spend the night sobbing to a piano acoustic of 

"i can't make you love me" by Bon Iver.

i learn heartbreak is a word derived from its literal

sensation. i imagine my heart will heal literally too, 

thicker muscle fibers, scar tissue walls.

board game night. we are laughing over something 

someone said. i can't remember what was said, only 

how badly my bones ache from laughing. 

i want to distill the moment into a tiny capsule, 

worn like a necklace, kept close forever.

grandpa's funeral. i think there exists grief 

too large to contain in mortal bodies. i think that's 

why we cry, to release it, to survive.

intensive care unit. fellow says, 

sometimes the body tells us it is time and we must honor it. 

family sobs. i feel like a hoax in my white coat.

we humans have no magic up our sleeves, 

fairy dust to stop entropy, 

pause time,

never leave. 

now. it is spring again – 

baby geese wide-eyed,

bright green grass and pollen

tickling the skin in my nostril,

flower buds closed with new secrets,

quietly begin to bloom.