by matt robinson
woman is equal to
weight of her grief.
from "=" by Anne Simpson
a man to what? the same?
you know- there was a time i would have argued: would
have quarrelled with the notion
of its, this knotty-chested tugging's, weight as something
at all substantial, seen it as only equivocation. (but
i tell you: that moist heaving
from the first pew, its sudden heft
throat-bulging, surprised me, to be sure. i wondered
at it. at how it then floated all the way back past and
through the coffin, past those
two ladies in finest blacks, and hovered
just beyond the door; wafted around rooms for weeks,
months; under and over, around me as i played
at sleep - it hung thicksweet and
sour, unpleasant as old onions.) no more. and so i class it now
- this grief - as tangible but nonetheless
irreconcilable, unlike most things we deem as heavy, to
our laws of gravity. where does that leave us?
then: a man to what? his grief
seemingly weightless, i'll suggest a man then,
perhaps, is equal not to the weight of, the heft; but instead
to a displacement, or to refraction; to
the number of waves he can create as a tear salts into the still
water of the kitchen sink, (note how
the motion of this kind of thing sweats
mute concentrics); to how the light dances off the rippling.
matt robinson is worth
at least this much. even way more.