Sleeping with Grief
I don’t know
what to do with my wife’s grief,
How she clutches my shirt,
Weeps the way Eve wept for Abel,
Sorrow wild, thick as locusts.
She says grief sits
in her stomach,
Fills her up like Thanksgiving dinner.
I imagine carving grief, serving it
With stuffing, black and full of onion.
I’m trying to
understand
How despair works, how being alone
Is like burying her mother again.
I’m not
alone, she says.
When you leave, grief crawls
Into bed with me. I can’t say no.
I can’t close my eyes, turn my back.
At night, in the dark,
I lie
Next to my wife, put my arm across
Her sleeping body, feel her chest
Rise and fall, slow as a funeral.
If I press my ear
to her breast,
I will hear the sound Eve made
When God introduced her to death.
Martin Achatz lives in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, not far from Lake Superior. He received his MA in fiction and MFA in poetry from Northern Michigan University. This is his first book.
Updated 4/16/07
Martin Achatz
The Mysteries of the Rosary
Paper, perfect bound, 62 pp
$10.00 plus s&h
2004, ISBN 0-932412-28-9
Based loosely on the Catholic Rosary and other devotional prayers, this collection of poems is quiet and intense, walking the mysterious line between sacramental and sacreligious.
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