christine isn’t home right now

by Angel Rosen

I have a stack of books

so high I can't see what’s behind them.

I hope it’s you.

All the How-Tos and What-to-Expects,

everything telling me to declutter and stock my

refrigerator, implying that

healing isn’t linear, if I hear grief

described clinically one more time,

I will forfeit.

If I read one more sentence

about the flowers and fancy of the

grief-stricken, how to let devastation pass

through my fingers like sand,

I will close the lid.

I’m collecting the books that lecture me

about my feelings until they topple.

I want them to come straight down onto me

until I’m a smooth, paved road.  Someday,

I will meet myself there and take

the road less traveled by at the same time I take

the interstate. When I became halved

in the very instance of my greatest loss,

I didn’t become two, lackluster portions,

I didn’t become myself divided,

I doubled in size. Now, I take every road,

and I’ll take it twice,

until my two hands are four again,

until my two legs

are another two.

Angel Rosen (she/her) is a queer, autistic poet who writes to save her life. She can be found watching Law and Order: SVU, listening to The Dresden Dolls, or trying a new hobby. She is passionate about friendship, art, and bubble tea.