Grief is sneaky,
Grief hides.

It is bedside arguments,
Squabbles over small things,
Tussles over funeral hymns,
Who visited most? stayed longest?

Grief simmers,
Bubbles beneath,
Constantly ignited until the pan boils dry.

Grief encapsulates,
Fills the room like oxygen,
Compressing every surface.

Grief devours,
It does not let go.

Jo Withers writes poetry, flash and shorts from her home in South Australia. Recent work has appeared in Molotov Cocktail, Reflex Fiction, Spelk and Ellipsis Zine.