Let me tell you something
I know about hopeless grief.
It is green, acrid, violent,
and unrelenting in its ache.
Nothing passionless about that.
In my view, it's when the grief
subsides and the dark moves in
that you should start to worry.
When the numb hits the limbs,
that's when the time is right
to stage an intervention. Bring
barrels of wine and love, please.
This poem is a response to the famous poem "Grief" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Kenia asked the Real Toads to write a poem containing a line from a poem of which we are not fond. It's not that I dislike this poem of Browning's, but I have never experienced grief as passionless, so I tried to describe that. And now the idea is brewing in my brain, so I'm posting in response to Kenia's prompt but this feels like a very preliminary draft. Stay tuned!