by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Brush a hand along aged
rough trunk and gnarled roots.
Do they cease to feel the breaking away?
Leaf from branch, limb from core.
What can anyone really know
of the roots of another’s suffering?
I hold on to the feeling of being left behind,
a speck, a mote. Should it matter
that what lives must expire?
Body refuses to release its hold,
has a memory all its own.
And memory only pretends
to forget pieces of the story.
Grief is an oak.
Pity the leaves
all shiver and crumble.