I'd say I've found my footing

But I don’t, have footing, that is,with this sadness that staggersme each time I hear of another heartbegun beating in a friend’s bellywhile I have nothing but this aching,and I’m caught up —

the same net of coursework and researchand questions about when assignments are due,and the fear I’ll never publish, and the fearI’ll perish by my own hand,because I’ll have grown sickof waiting. I’m waiting now,for this tightening at my necklineto release, for my usual footingto return. So I’ll write, and put off work,and knit for my friends’ babies,and sip this coffee and go out for drinks,because I still can. And later

I’ll laugh at this time,and think it so short, so small,beside the power of — oh.

I wanted to say of your cry. Butif there’s a you, then I am without it,and the tightening returns. There is no you,yet. Only me waiting. And soback to work.