You can’t choose when grief arrives.
It may come like a wave
of muddy water
splashed upon all that you are
while you stand
dripping and grime-spotted
as the tail lights recede
and you are
helpless.
It may come as a ball
suddenly striking
an arm or a leg
or your gut
or your head,
(even more sensitive
parts can be so
struck)
and you will buckle
and grasp
and want to throw up
all over the ground
as you reel
dizzily
as the pain
washes over like
nothing poetic
than searing agony.
It may come as a pinch.
Quick and hot
or slow as a grade school torment.
It will leave you with red marks
that will sting
and throb.
It may come as a wasp
(speaking of stinging)
and strike, strike, strike
all up your arm.