And then comes the day when more
pours out—wave upon wave.

You hadn’t known what you held
inside, thought you had already learned
all the shapes of your grief.

But now: you at the kitchen table,
the light bill, the doctors’ bills, your cold
cup of tea,
and suddenly
you are gasping,
wailing, folding yourself over
your folded arms.

Your animal sound
wrenches you back. The dog
stands in the doorway, alert eyes
fixed on you. He holds himself perfectly still.