Grief Study

after Marie Howe

It was like the moment I broke
my mother’s lipstick, the stick of vermillion
bled into my palm, and I hadn’t known this thing
which could fit inside the thumb-length pocket stitched
along my hamstring could hold this much spillage, it bled like a sea
that finally bordered no land, had nothing to take the shape of, how gladly
it uncontained itself, what took me most was how all that red shone
like a traffic light, but from the inside of my body, gest-
uring me to remain alert and still but also priming
me to stay ready to up and bolt, both at once—
it was like that, only all the time.