Spring 2015
I have this theory that by Jane Burn
I have this theory that
there are invisible balls of grief
we share among us.
They are the size of boiled eggs and very similar
to swallow. Just enough
to uncomfortably stretch your throat but not
block it – leave pain after,
like you ate something that was too big
for your gullet. They don’t sink
to your stomach – they lodge in your sternum as if
they are stones under mattresses – you feel them
when you bend, when you breathe, when you walk
around. Eventually they dissolve,
are passed out as uncomfortable dreams
one time, when you fall asleep
on the sofa. They reform; float off,
find another victim.
But they do come back, as homing pigeons do.
Or salmon, swimming back
to where they were born.
The Linnet's Wings Poetry