Whose Grief

woman weeping inside from the rain, hand posted against window concealing part of face

By Bethany Dixon

Whose grief do I hold in my hands

it is a dark animal shape

asleep on my chest, a stone

worn smooth by worry, it is softer

than the velvet wing –

your mouth on my face

Whose grief, this sudden rain

collecting in the hollows of my collarbones

whose voice swallows my throat and chokes

what hallowed ground is this

where my feet, unworlded, do not look before walking

Whose path has beat down the wild knife-grass of wanting

was it the women who once wore their love

for you like armor. A noose. A gift.

Whose grief have I carried like a child

all this time, on my back

hip-settled

cradle-armed

bone-sung

Whose grief, then, tell me

which part of my body you have left untouched

does it all belong to me

Bethany Dixon is a writer, baker, and pianist living in Ithaca, NY. She works in a tower of books at Cornell's Olin Library by day, crafting poems and pastries by night. Her poetry has been published in the Connecticut River Review, with work forthcoming in the North American Review. Bethany's current work focuses on reclaiming female narratives from ancient Greek texts.