Regret is approximately 3lbs,
roughly what’d you’d expect
in a good sledgehammer
for household uses,
i.e., it’s a reorganizing principle.
Grief, paradoxically, is absent of mass
but present, heavier, and determined
by the position of other, say, well-adjusted people
whose light cannot pass through her,
our subject, slipping, inconsolable,
to different, occluded areas of the room.
Then there’s disaster–the worst.
Actuarially: a total loss, which we posit as calamity,
technically, for her, suggests she is out,
beyond any known centers of gravity…
isolate, e.g., in a phone booth, where she is,
e.g., where she isn’t in a phone booth.
She may feel her heart is like a stone that floats,
but, really, the heart is the effect of attenuation,
properly, the dissipation that results from hitting rock
bottom, which is how the bed feels, her heart
an irony of loss, only present in one sense,
in another, an enucleated abstraction
drowning her in the shallow end
while everyone, observing from the edge,
is advising her to just stand.
M.K. Sukach is the author of two chapbooks, Something Impossible Happens (Big Wonderful Press) and Impression of a Life (Corrupt Press). His poetry appears in a number of journals to include JMWW, The Hamilton Stone Review, Connotation Press, Spoon River Poetry Review, Construction Magazine, Yemassee, and others. Closer look: http://www.mksukach.com.