A poem for your Friday

“Haruspex” by Jolene Brink

This ancient practice of gathering figs. 
A warm bowl of milk.                Things you cannot swallow.

Leaving your house. Fields flooded with storm. 

The lakes rising in our sleep. 

These nights I dream about a road you creep along
but cannot love. 

Lost in mid-sentence I asked for you and came up with bones. 

Nobody is okay with what is missing.                     Our job
is to find a narrative that heals.

These words will not leave your room.

This wax is holding you together. 

Please take these words 
from me and rise another way.