Circle Dance

If we were in kindergarten we would sit
on a bright patterned rug.
“Make a circle, children.
It’s story time.”

Instead, we sit on stiff, one-armed chairs
and pass around our speaking
with a box of tissue
as though it was a Kiowa talking stick.

We laugh at loss and cry over trivia.

We are poets
and this is grief’s playroom.



Poetry Thursday