It is hard tonight to have arms.
Rather to give them to the trees.
Say, “Here, I have no use for these.”
Rather to offer them to the earth
than to hold this burden of grief.
Rather to lie in the strange bed alone
without the arms, without their groping
long into the night for answers. There is
some urge that rises up to insist,
“You love life!” like a cheerleader
who has not been paying attention
to the game. It is true, I believe,
but tonight what is as true is
that it is hard to have eyes
that burn from the long day of tears.
It is hard to have eyes that look
everywhere and do not find
the face in the crowd. And it is hard
to have eyes. It is hard to have arms.
For the time being, I sit, noticing
the hard seat of the chair beneath me.
I have not heard a raven song for days.