Grief Years Later

Like the burnt soup

in a desiccated clump

at the bottom of the pan,

the memory of you 

gets stirred up still,

contaminating my taste

for life because you died.

You died.

You died. 

If I could have let it lie,

maybe the soup wouldn’t have been ruined,

but sometimes the smallest

mixture of object, place, and time

conspire to drag it all up again

so I can’t forget 

though God knows I tried.

I tried.

I tried.

Yet still it stirs,

and I hate it because

life goes on

and I’ve moved on 

and found better love elsewhere,

savory at the top of possibilities

where hope floats and I abide.

I abide.

I abide.