by Mary Jane Hurley Brant
My grief’s a whirling ceiling fan
It whips me about again and again.
chop chop
whoosh whoosh
My soul's a tortured tear-stained book.
This splintered old boat on an angry sea
It rocks; it shouts you’ll never sink me.
slosh slosh
splash splash
My soul's a prayerful history.
A blossoming limb torn from our family tree;
Like lightening it’s deafening oh God save me.
chop chop
crack crack
My soul's just aching to bring her back.