I Think of You
One loss swallows another, growing its jaws
to embody death and death and death.
Loss limbers, loosens its wispy arms, legs.
Loss is a mass noun, uncountable even
when I count you and you. Loss is a skin
over skin, over eyes, over the pads of fingers
and toes which never warm. It is the worst
kind of blanket. It cannot untangle, unknot.
There are no corners. It is sewn by hand.
Jennifer Gravley makes her way in Columbia, Missouri. She is a writer of sentences, a watcher of bad television, and a reference and instruction librarian. Her work has recently appeared in North American Review, Heron Tree, and Sweet, among others.