when I hear from you

I have a cage for grief. 

I built it in my heart. 

The cage is made of guilt and mischief. 

I formed it when I was two. 

At thirty-five, grief knows where to sit in the hollow branches of my heart. 

She swings her legs and calls out, 

"Are you listening?" 

I don't know how to abide by grief. 

I don't know what to tell her. 

I am a thousand suns bursting. 

I am none.