someone pointed me towards
it’s easy, like learning to climb
stairs after the amputation.
carefully setting the table
for two. I passed you the toast—
Anger seemed more familiar.
I burned the toast, snatched
the paper and read the headlines myself.
But they mentioned your departure,
Bargaining. What could I exchange
after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression
came puffing up, a poor relation
its suitcase tied together
with string. In the suitcase
were bandages for the eyes
and bottles of sleep. I slid
all the way down the stairs
Hope was a signpost pointing
Hope was my uncle’s middle name,
After a year I am still climbing, though my feet slip
has long since disappeared;
But now I see what I am climbing
written in capital letters,
Below, my whole life spreads its surf,
all the landscapes I’ve ever known
Grief is a circular staircase.
- Linda Pastan, “The Five Stages of Grief” from The Five Stages of Grief: Poems