Where does the time go when you grieve? Where does grief go? It doesn’t. It stays on, which I’ve realized is good, because then you never forget.

I don’t usually share my personal life in public domains. It’s mine. It’s private. But sometimes in the big wide open it’s nice to reach out. To touch and be touched, especially when times are fragile. Besides, poets generally write personal stuff and then put it out there.

But it’s tough right now. Remembering.

In memorandum of my son, Ian Joss Mellor.

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I remember exactly.
Two pings. The impatient iPhone glow.

Outside a woodpecker messaged
in morse upon the shamrock green cactus
but unable to decode, I lay looking
out at the mirage of desert,

the rising sun perplexed at the speed at which
earth traveled. Too early, it thought, yet there it was.

I hadn’t had to answer the call, saving me from
a murmur of empathy for what
I was about to feel. The matter-of-fact tone,
instantly expunged. (The news)

exiled to the farthest reaches
of the peninsula.            Farther.

I remember exactly, a nebulous realism
as a deepening moan ascended through a whirling
whir. A thickening throb. Lightening quick
I’d been struck. Down. To bear unconscionable quiet.

Is it possible the world stopped?

Yet secretly, behind my back, it carried on;
the undeniable rustle of life. On and on and on
my numb, twined fetal was nudged. Reminded.

Don’t answer the call. We all
know we can’t bear to listen to appropriate words
at such inappropriate times. There is
no right time. To die. To call. To tell.

Three hundred sixty five rising suns.
I remember exactly.



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