End of the Feast
Grief is a gristle,
flavorless, tough,
till there is nothing to do
but spit out this lump,
this ache in the jaws and breast.
It has lasted far too long.
Slow, deliberate, into the serviette
and no one is aware
how I've let grief go.
At the end of the feast
I lift my glass in gratitude
for love once lived, as richly known
as wine upon the lips. Is it there
or do I only think I taste
the warmth of Spanish light
and mist that rises from the earth?
Sue Scalf
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