The Flavor of Grief
By: Douglas John Imbrogno
Tags: Poetry, This Happened To Me, Grief, Grief And Loss, Poetry On Medium

1.

I have been

getting familiar lately

with the flavor of

grief. It comes on me

with no warning.

While driving up-river,

to shelter-in-Nature.

At 68 mph. Passing

a too-slow, white

Chevy truck. There

it is. A watery

film glazes my eyes.

It curls up, like

fog on a pond, when

the weather turns

and water reacts,

a heat differential

as the sun rises.

I am not, I should

add, grief-stricken.

Although, were I to

think about it, it’d be

easy to tune into it

clearly, like locking

onto a radio station

amid a miasma

of static.

2.

There is enough

grief going round, what

with a pandemic

expiring a quarter

million lives in under

than a year. A quarter

million sons & daughters,

fathers, mothers, friends

& cousins. Reprobates and

saints. This virus claims

them all. Then, there’s the

grief that fuels the anger.

A clown-show

president, who is no

more interested in

lives he helped dispatch.

Couldn’t, honestly,

care less. Would rather

mull the many

slings and arrows of

his outrageous misfortune,

one white golf shoe

pressed to the floor,

going hole-to-hole.

Chewing on his

interminable grievances.

As we, his audience,

enraged or darkly

entertained, pull up

short, after yet another

mate gets called

positive. And like a

relentless grandmaster,

wielding bishops &

pawns, bears down upon

our sanctuary.

3.

There’s a lot of

grief going down.

But I don’t think

this grief is

that grief. This

murky, sudden-rising

grief seems old, inborn,

perhaps. The grief of

childhood’s shock,

when we were promised

innocence, but daily

living overtook us

like a steamroller,

flattening things. Or we,

in our woundedness,

flatten other people’s

lives. Hurt people hurt

people, as they say.

(And let it be said,

whomever ‘they’ are,

they’re likely hurt, too.)

It comes with the

territory. This

grief, I mean.

4.

There’s a word in

Buddhist thought — samvega.

It’s the dawning horror

we’re yoked to this

water-wheel of life-after-

life, spun round

for aeons. So lost. ‘Long

have I wandered in samsara,

seeking, but not finding

the builder of this house …’

That grief is maybe the

kind I mean.

Be curious, my

kalyana mitta — my

spiritual friend — Ben

tells me, with whom I

engage in inquiry

once a month via

telephone, across

the length & breadth

of America. Sometimes,

he’s on the Left Coast,

sometimes New Orleans,

it doesn’t matter. The

guidance remains the

same. Don’t flee! Don’t

exit the field, back into the

cockpit of my forebrain. A

familiar redoubt, where I head to

outhink my churning thoughts.

5.

That’s a hopeless, age-old

dodge. Be curious when

the demiurge, the sleek

panther of rage appears

(that’s a powerful fellow,

that one.) Not jet-black,

but made of charcoal

smoke, flecked with grey

ash. Who’s he?

Be curious. Remain

in the room. And so,

now, driving,

50 mph. Gazing for

my turn-off, aiming to

sit in the noon-time sun.

Cigar in one hand, now,

a couple dragonflies

helicopter down

upon my white pants.

Such curious creatures!

I don’t shoo them off,

but photograph them

with my phone. Realize

the taste of grief is gone.

6.

For now. It had risen

at the back of my throat

like gorge. Gone in this

moment with the

dragonflies, as they lift off.

Alight anew.

I’m sure it

will be back. Until

I attain nirvana. If,

it’s even possible

to ‘attain.’ This grief,

I’m certain, will be a

traveling companion

for the long road. Or

several companions, for

I distantly sense, yet

with certainty, grief

has distinctions.

Many eras. Many colors.

And many, many flavors. I

hardly know them all.

Greenbottom, WV | nov27–28.2020