Victorian grief

I went to see an exhibition of

Victorian grief,

a dozen or so sorrows huddled together-

tears in clay jars,

the seize of human hearts,

like scattered nails about the alter

 

How clever of them

to hold their sorrow away from their hearts,

to no longer feel

the hot rush of tears

down cheeks

and onto ribs and breasts,

 

To shut heartache up instead,

in jars,

fat bottomed anchors,

left like orphans on the church’s marble steps

 

How clever,

that within cold jars,

cold tears wait,

to be resurrected by the sun,

to evaporate

 

I wonder,

If i might do the same,

If i might place

all our warm kisses and touches-

our warm words and looks,

 

If i might take the ghost

of your hand on the back of my neck

And place them,

as women before me have done,

Our sleeping hopes,

into the black o –

the gaping mouth,

of cold, clay lips