Letting go

The weight of sadness can be consolidated into one whole box of 
Wet scrunched up 2-ply tissue, two soaked pillowcases, and the 
Three bags I bring to the airport hoping they will let me
Carry on. All in all, it is pretty light, like something I lug
Alongside my luggages full of back-to-school fresh starts. 

I am a clean slate again, but the act of erasing has left me
Naked and raw — howling in a kind of hurt that leaks out like 
A whistle from my chest. I’ve never heard myself sound 
Like some wounded beast clenching up against a shaft
Poisoned with memories that chase me at nightfall. Blinding
Tears ooze out from the wound like pearls of blood plasma on a 
Scrapped knee. There are no arms to hold and kiss it better.

How can sadness as light as a box of tissues be so difficult 
To let go? Every hour I learn to unpeel my knuckle-white
Fingers one by one off the grief, but in a careless instant
Everything seizes back into a fist trying to wring out 
Tears from the pillowcase. Every morning I start again.
This long ritual of cleaning the slate, letting go of the pain.