Grief Has Eight Legs - An Original Poem

Grief Has Eight Legs

Isabel Mya

Grief has been pestering me lately.

She crawls around inside me,

sharpening her fangs on my bones.

She scuttles back and forth

and hides in places I’d least expect.

Grief has eight legs

and each one stomps all over my heart.

Yesterday I found her lurking behind the memory 

of racing back home in the rain,

running at full speed, 

with water sloshing around in my shoes and 

slithering down the back of my neck. 

Next thing I knew she’d darted over to

a feeling I’d all but forgotten – 

seeing the world spin around as I (badly)

attempted a cartwheel

(and barely made it off the grassy ground.)

The other day I even found her building a web around

the sights and sounds of public transport.

Who knew you could feel nostalgia 

for waiting on a train platform,

minding the gap,

finding an empty seat with a proper table? 

I can see the trains going by from my bedroom window.

They rush by, with no time to stop and say hello

to a sick girl stuck in bed.

Why should they? 

People have places to be, things to do.

The world outside continues with or without me in it.

I wonder if pub tables still feel sticky,

and cinemas still smell of popcorn.

I wonder if public bathrooms still have graffiti,

if church bells still toll,

if the old woman with the guitar still busks outside Sainsbury’s. 

If I woke up tomorrow in a healthy body,

would Starbucks baristas still spell my name wrong?

Would sand still feel the same between my toes?

Would freshly cut grass still make my eyes burn?

Would I remember how to do things like order off of a menu,

navigate using a map, 

or buy a bus ticket? 

Grief hides herself among the mundane details of everyday life,

and I’m left yearning for small talk with cashiers.

I’m at a loss for what to do with Grief.

I’ve written about her,

I’ve spoken about her at length,

I’ve gotten down on my knees and begged her to leave me be

but it’s never enough. 

She’s never satisfied. 

She keeps leaving cobwebs all over the place,

and I run around after her cleaning them up.

I’m growing weary of this constant chase.

I think I need to find a way to make peace with 

the fact that my body has three inhabitants:

myself, chronic illness, and Grief.