Grief: A poem by Hunter Lewinski

By Hunter Lewinski

 

Grief

Light the lights that
burn the corners of
a dark room.

Who are you in the dark,
when your face dissolves in
the mirror’s pool, as if disturbed
by two pale legs fluttering
beneath the water’s blackened edge?

Through the gaps in the windows,
silence casts a cold fog that
stifles language’s withering tongue.
In its place, a refrain of groaning pipes
and cobwebs resonates
in absence.

The moon is a suckled pink
like the toes of babies
you’ll never meet,
and it makes no sense,
but it keeps you awake while
others sleep.

There are ghosts in the attic, but
they haunt the afternoons.


Hunter Lewinski is a freshman at Hamilton College, majoring in Literature and Creative Writing. When not writing, Hunter co-hosts a college radio program, and plays guitar in the Hamilton College Jazz Band. He has previously been published in By&By Poetry, Maudlin House, Anon Magazine, and Yellow Chair Review.

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