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Dehydration

Grief is falling through me, draining my skin
salt white. I feel darkness spread around
my aching eyes. I am filled with dryness.

Flakes of paper ash rise from the open fire,
are sent swirling by an unseen coat, a breath.

I reach out to touch an invisible hand,
touch ash that dries to grey on my skin.

My body shakes, I have thought too much
about the futures sensed, I fear that signs
will stop, the ash and feathers settle.

I fear leaving the slow routines of grief.
As I breathe out, a feather strand moves

across the table. When I hold my breath
it dances back. Tricked by the phone’s echo
I get up, sit down. Grief has made me lazy.

I am watchful for reminders, pointers,
coincidences, the times when meanings

flow together. Paper ash rises from the fire
I hold my breath as a strand of feather
moves slowly across the table, rises.