Hothouse

Grief is when you are sour
dough, a puddle from the mother
no end, no beginning, amorphous
spread out, held only by the shape of
what happens to contain you.

Then, you are beaten, again and again
thwapped against the wall
of the mixing bowl
or the counter
however god prefers to toughen you up.

Each beating you grow tighter
you cling relentlessly to anything
anyone
that touches you
begging to be held
until you give up, smooth
round, contracted.

At last, some rest
drowning in olive oil
or smothered in flour
shuffled away with a cover on
your troubles. You belong in a warm, still place.

You feel you ought to be
O.K. But this is only the beginning.
Everything sweet in you gets eaten up
your guts boil
you shout hot, angry, boozy air
at the thin film separating you from
the rest of the world.

You think of being flour and water
again, and again
you’re stretched this way and that
into the shape
the world wants you to be.
Making you stronger feels like
tearing you apart
Is there any difference?
You learn how to hold yourself.

If you’re lucky, your tense
exterior will soon be slashed
with the razor of
Hope/Expectation
a deliberate fault line
where you can safely explode
and show the world what was once
on the inside.
You will look beautiful.

Rest, again,
wonder, again,
Will I be able to take much more?
Will the flames burn me to a crisp?
Will I keep staying stuck until
I am overproofed
airless, levelled, grotesque?

Or

Will I Rise?