Grief doesn’t always call itself grief.
Some days, it breaks everything in its sight and calls itself Rage.
Then looks at the wreckage, and calls itself Monster.
Grief hates a spectacle but can’t help itself becoming one.
Grief wakes with a knife in its heart;
Piercing exactly where it let the dead slip.
Grief stops eating.
Weak and nimble,
Grief moves on.
Showers, puts on fresh clothes;
A shape-shifter laughing at parties.