What Do I Know About Grief
What do I know about grief
or how Death would follow me
like a determined lover,
like a determined lover,
taking first my mother, father, sister,
my best friend of forty-two years?
Then my husband.
How his bony finger
would point at the next person.
would point at the next person.
Once, I walked into a spider web
and I think grief is like that —
it catches in your hair and your lashes.
My friend’s husband died after a short and brutal illness.
They were as close as two spoons.
When he died, she told me she had always been happy
When he died, she told me she had always been happy
just to be in their apartment with him,
that even passing him in the hallway felt like an act of love.
In the weeks after my husband died,
in the months waterlogged with tears,
I thought I would not survive, but gradually
I began to imagine that he came back to visit me.
A shadow in the corner of the room,
a presence sitting in a chair beside me,
though, of course, he could never stay long.
I am comforted by his ghost self.
I am sure he is telling me that he is content
in that other world where I cannot touch him.
I am grateful there is a door
through which he can pass to visit me,
even for a moment, his ghost hand on my cheek.
by Maria Mazziotti Gillan
Maria Mazziotti Gillan's newest poetry collection is When the Stars Were Still Visible (2021). Other recent publications are the poetry and photography collection, Paterson Light and Shadow, and the poetry collections What Blooms in Winter and The Girls in the Chartreuse Jackets, a pairing of her poems with her paintings.
Maria's artist website is MariaMazziottiGillan.com and her poetry website is MariaGillan.com.


