Sara Leigh

This death, and the next one,
and the third, as they so often

do, comes in threes, surprises her.
The level of grief feels light at first,

but it sinks in with morning,
it moves like heavy water

throughout the house,
and her legs don't move well

across the floor, too deep to walk,
too shallow to swim out of.

it doesn't fill the room, but stills
the day and night and everything

in it. she is half under and quiet.
there is so much to be done.

there is nothing to be done.
sorrow is holy ground,

but she's a long ways from dry
land at this point. she misses

her father who brushed
her hair, who held her hand.

it's that simple.