Grief, a dance partner I did not
choose, puts me on display
for a waltz I have not learned.
He does not care that my ankles
are unlocked or that I am an unwilling
to follow his lead.
His grip is tight on my hand and weighty on my
Demanding elegance he holds his head
with the confidence of centuries of one-two-threes.
I rise when I should fall, and fall when
I should rise.
Slowly, I realize that the waltz will play on
until I follow Grief’s lead. Back right foot,
slide the left . . .
A repeated pattern of elegant sadness,
Until the crowd gasps in awe. I have
found joy in this pattern of sadness.