This place is plasma. It is band-aid hurt and heavy,
it is gross. It is when you open your mouth for tap

water but instead you get nails, you get shards, ice
spreading like roots in the concave of your mouth;

spooning your open flesh like a lover but you choke,
thunder tears and rain, you choke. And you try to  

spit out the hurt but this knife, this metal gulp kept clinging,
shoveling. And you tear. With your scissor hands, you tear;

both your knees digging grave on the asphalt earth,
you tear. But darling, you also hold, this pulse holds.

Your fault line meets and reaches, and you hear a pumping;
bone loud, kissing. The sky opens. The river sings.

—  Kharla M. Brillo, Grief