Amorphous
by Megan A. Pastore
Less than 24 hours after your death
I was asked to describe the shape of grief—
but how do I mold a vacancy? How
do I force the concept of [ ]
into a tangible, recognizable thing
when I’ve no name for your absence?
Last night, I asked you to come to me
in a dream, as if you didn’t have more
important things to do—but know this:
I begged for you, needed to see you, hold
you, keep you, desperate to meet you
in the in-between and instead, I dreamt
of a blooming Easter cactus—electric violet
birthing from the tips of rounded green
and I remembered—your favorite color is
was purple, a striking contrast
to your once ember-red cascade, and I think
what is the color of rage? Of sadness?
Of pain? My heart is a poor
contortionist, an inflexible fraud stuck
in its own foolish backbend, blood rushing
to its head—the pressure, a rubber-band
stretched in my chest—why does grief
feel like an open mouth? Cloud of flies
feast in the back of my throat—a vocal
vibration not of my own making.