I carry a grief few know, fewer hear— the language of my body and its foreign sounds: spontaneous, diagnostic for no explanation. It signifies nouns
and verbs external to my state imposing syntax to my frame. My composition is a morpheme unable to stand alone.
One March, I inched across my university’s white sidewalks to teach the act of writing akin to riding a bike. This body of infinitives split by the snow so wet it broke tree limbs outstretched in premature spring.
Just one more step, I prayed. And I heard that kin-voice, my older brother next to me, who taught farming at the same university: i.e., the art of sustaining life amid the elements. This is a grief few know, yet he saw, walked, and toiled with me.
I have read of miracles, yet wonder about my own. But this I know: grief’s sentence is finite, for grief holds no eternity. Lo, witness God rewrite my smallest cry to verb: hands lifted high.
Megan Huwa is a freelance editor in higher education and a poet and writer in San Diego, CA. Her work has been published in Letters Journal, The Penwood Review, The Midwest Quarterly (Summer 2023), The Habit podcast (Summer 2023), and her website. Born the fifth generation on her family’s Colorado farm and a classically-trained pianist, she melds in her poetry aurality, rural life, and empathy through the varied voices and lives of those she observes. A rare health condition keeps her from living in Colorado, so her poetry reaches for home—both temporal and eternal.
