Grief Work

Where the bonfire was supposed to be

I found the smell of ashes, the last log

barely holding its shape inside a circle

of trampled grass. I knelt down and wept

until the log was cold and wet

and I was empty of tears. Then

I wept a darkness that I do not know.

It covered the log, congealing

to a hardness, a weight, a shine

that made me lift the log

and carry it before me as if

it were a brand to light me home.

                                                         DL