I wrote this poem a few weeks ago, and have been putting off posting it, because it is about sadness. But that's allowed, as much as anything else I could write about.
Seven Kinds of Sadness
I noted down seven kinds of sadness
in case of confusion or mistaken identity.
Here is one: a child wailing is scolded,
dismissed in frustration until you spy
the tiny fingers pinched white in a drawer.
Another: your lover weeps a wound
that your presence cannot salve,
no matter how warm you think your hands.
A third: a story of thousands of faces and
miles away, cut down with the pepper-shot
of distant metal. Your tears are grey.
More: a hot wave of blood rage and you
whip out words as knives:
"It was good enough for her."
Here is a fifth: A casket, gash in ancient earth
a human hole that crams your nose and ears
with crumbled dirt in honour of the dead.
Another: An animal in pain, stilled by the thud of tyres.
His liquid eyes forgive what you know he
believes came to him by your hand.
And the last, the seventh sadness:
when you could have helped,
but you didn't know.