The loss specific

The loss specific

Grief hideous and nicotined
he is pencil ringed with marking martyrs.
It’s the starched things get the guttering
golluming,
so we’ve stopped changing the sheets
chewed up his toothbrush
reflex snap the channel when baby sounds
slam in like road markings across eye skin.

There are no comforts to offer him
no ‘because you’re a good thing’
‘just think of the reasons’
‘some people sleep next to bins.’
Just reassurance that the sky
for a while, will pivot
squat bland as a Holiday Inn
on his too blinking retinas
that his too split lip smile
for the bad stomaching people
is extraordinarily serene.