I wanted to use a metaphor
for my sadness and translate
into a beautiful posey of a poem. I could say that
it is the hour stretched before one gets ready
for gaol but I've never been to gaol. I've
never lost a husband to cancer, never eaten a fish
cooked wrong, never stepped into a new
land only to find it more
imposing in pictures. I've never seen hatred;
I've never seen a miracle. The other day, I looked at a map
and saw that my
country is the color green and I believe it is so,
even in real life. Then I realized
that I do not know what it means to truly suffer,
if there is such a thing as a singular meaning
for a feeling; something so small and secular,
you can tie it around your finger to remember
to forget.

What are the things that console me now?
Is it this knowing that all things end?
Or is it the weight, the sudden tumult
of beginnings?