Six Months and Nine Days

INTRO: 

Six months and nine days after his wife's passing, the poet conducts a quiet experiment: has the grieving lost any of its intensity? A photo in the hallway, a bowl of soup, and the answer arrives.

By Vincent R. Pozon

Grief does not come in waves,
waves you can see cresting from afar
strangely at peace with seabirds

It is the middle of the year, a Christmas
lantern still sways in the jerky air
of storm season. She will not mind.

But if the dogs are not fed well,
I can expect her to stand
by my sleep, glowering, until I wake.

Sometimes I test the grief,
six months and nine days later.
There is a photo of her I have to pass,

inches from my face. It hangs
at eye level, her head
larger than mine.

I come near and touch it,
and am surprised the voltage
is as strong, the jolt reaching my elbow.

Today the help served me boiled beef.
The marrow is good for the skin,
she said, and I wept into the bowl.