Fomalhaut

my grief stretches

o u t like a microwave minute. turning

and turning in circles until

every particle of me is vibrating in loss.

it is deafening. 

a tuning fork struck against my soul would 

render the voice of Folmalhaut a mere

whisper, maybe. I am tired of cycling 

through the same streets, tires diving into potholes and

snagging my tights on the edges of sidewalk. 

I tell my husband ‘I want to drill a hole in my head

so I can pour out this sadness.’

but he tells me that would only kill me.

I wonder if he knows 

I already feel quite dead.

-the brightest star