Grief is Crabgrass

with lanky-angled arms, as if she’s broken,
spear-sharp legs as if she’s seeded to infiltrate,
penetrate, to reach, leach and strangle—a demon

greedy to possess sun and soil.

Silky threads, verdant and windswept,
tufted seed pods, sweet clover crowns
locked in weed gallows.

Warrior dandelions with their single stubborn root,
crystal-cut foliage, winemaking, jelly-making,
bee-happy-yellow opulence, don’t stand a chance.

In frenzied crab furies, wired to outwit,
outgrow, steal back the theft, injustice,
the cinder and ash of loss,

she couldn’t stop running marathons, traveling
at light speeds, chasing bone-dry highs, spilling
herself on paper until words choked white

and the green spider web spun, done.

Catherine Arra lives in the Hudson Valley of upstate New York, where she teaches part-time, and facilitates local writing groups. She is the author of eight poetry collections. Recent work appears in San Pedro Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Origami Poems Project, Stone Circle Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Unbroken, Impspired, and Unleashed Lit. Find her at www.catherinearra.com