Her question, among sea
of flying hormones and bouncing balls,
“How’s your grief?”
I look at her. My grief?
No one has asked for months.
People expect me to move on.
They do not want to hear that every night
I seek frantic handholds at the edge
of a deep and endless chasm.
Student needs attention and we move apart.
But all day I dwell in the fragrance
of her sweet and unexpected question.
(C) Carol Wilcox, 2022