By Jess Richards
Inside the body, Grief morphs
into an insect with a sharp sting.
Grief is endangering—
it grows articulated legs, crawls through
the cage of stacked ribs, squeezing
abdomen through wreckage.
The rhythm of its wings mimics
shallow-breathing. There are no bruises
yet skin feels scab-ripped-off raw.
It yearns for oceans to float in.
If there was any mineral
which could kill Grief,
it would be salt.
The insect buzzes inside tight shoulders,
a bone-deep nothing.
Arms ache to hold something big enough.
Nothing is enough: enough is Nothing.
At night, the brain misfires.
The insect prods the amygdala
with antenna and claws,
creating emotional remembrances
of un/known ancestors;
trenches and earthworms,
magnified images of photosynthesising cells.
Summer lasting for sixty-seven years,
roses blooming on a woman’s blouse.
Heaving the heart into the mouth
it has already been bitten by mandibles
but its flavours are preserved;
there is something of blood.
Something of plant stems.
Something of salt.