Grief, Not Guilt
by Jeanann Verlee
I wish you a tongue scalded by tea. A hangover. Burnt toast. Stubbed toes. A lost job. I wish you weeping in the shower. Salt in the sugar bowl. A wishlist of sorrows. Grief, not guilt. Hole in your favorite coat. Stain on the good suit. Arthritis for your joints. A broken guitar string at every show. I wish each breath a little harder. Each workday an hour longer. I wish your heart a thousand breaks. All your sports teams, bottom rank. I wish your friends go quiet. The leaves brown above your head. A thunderstorm every morning. Nothing but pearls when you shop for her diamond. I wish you bad knees, a sore back. Empty sheets. A ghost to haunt your house. A tub brimming with mud. Closet stuffed with too-small shoes. Flat beer. Sour milk. Weak coffee. I wish you flat tires, soggy pasta, a tax audit to fail. Bent forks, dull knives. A hangnail for every finger. I wish you a room wallpapered with my photographs. A chamber filled with empty bassinets.
(via Poetry Rx)