Anatomy of Grief

Time folds itself like linen at the foot

of the bed, creased from nights we’ve

held under it, our bodies pressing new

constellations into the fabric of our loss.

Each exhale is a new type of departure,

each inhale return, the lungs building and

demolishing the same small world. We

call this breath, it feels like prayer, our

mouths a doorway for our unnamed ghosts.

Each moment we remember slices at

the tender lining of our throats. We gasp

and only ash and smoke remain. The light

is gone by the time we call it beautiful.

Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and teaches in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She received her MFA from the University of Texas – El Paso and also holds a doctorate in educational leadership. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @fadingbetty.bsky.social