I grieve quietly in the small heat of this room
Doomed to the failure of withering away

I was born on a Tuesday
                         While snow gently kissed the hospital

Before I left home, my sisters and I cleaned out
My father’s office
The only heirloom of our grandmother,
                    His mother, was
The guns he kept in the back corner of the closet

I used to tell my father how I couldn’t wait for us
          To dance at my wedding

At home, an eerie silence has crept in
By longing for his rounded voice

I mourn that my mother is alone
I mourn that my father knew
He was dying once again
               But this time alone

On the mountain, when I was still small enough to hold,
My father took me to the balcony to hold and to hear
The train pass as he pointed out the constellations

And I grieve these moments quietly
Grieve and quietly and by myself