Instructions for Selling Off Grief

Take the pulse of the universe.
Pave a neural network acquitted of pain back, back.

Let go of tears,
but resist resisting breath.

Swallow against
paralysis.

Pinkie pointed up saluting God, Aphrodite,
any irrelevant divinity.

Tiny fist holds the handle of the white
ceramic branded with Eloise in black.

At high tea for the grand occasion of turning ten, I easily delighted at pink hot chocolate pooling over the lip, spilling into the mouth.

Meek belly the size of my adult knee
steeling itself against the translucent table.

Surrounded by art, antiques antiquated, my black skirt grazing thighs,
turquoise sequins spangling my top, whiting my skin out of its shade. 

I teetered on digits stacked side by side
at The Plaza beside my parents handling miniature cakes, unreal colors in miniature wrappers.   

The minuteness of being a wee blade blowing wild,
a wick in the world sparkling with style.

I posed before storefronts, hands clasping my small waist,
black loafers tap-dancing on tiles. 

I sat myself inside the thought:
I was Eloise, a model.

I was everything suffusing elegance, the rim of adolescence
without knowing the words, their definitions.

I knew my mother would always be my womb, that I was in her womb: protected, inviolable.

Until my pinky fell from the sky,
the Eloise mug crushing underfoot.

I could not be bolted back as though
nothing had happened.

Swallow against
paralysis.

Let go of tears,
but resist resisting breath.

Take the pulse of the universe.
Pave a neural network acquitted of pain back, back.

Take it from me,
my grief, I mean —it’s for sale.