Themes of distant yet frequent death and subsequent unsettling grief

This place is not a welcome place. Autumn is ending. Death is close. She lines email inboxes, local news outlets, and student magazines. On the news: on the sofa. She is careful; quiet. The oven, the hob, the flame, the gas. A biker without a helmet. She is outside. That tricky corner. Keeping watch- sitting at the foot of the door or in the hallway by the shoe rack. There are days when you think of her often, keep her closer, invite her in. It’s colder outside. A breath on the breeze, frost-bitten grass, dried leaves in cooler tones. She is slipping. Black ice automobiles. Rush hour. Marylebone station. There are (fewer) days when you think of her less. It’s getting harder to feel your fingers. She sighs into the roots of the ash tree, sends leaves scattering like spinning tops. She is climbing so high, touching the trees brittle, pressing winter into the fissures where leaves used to grow. The park is grey, the sky is grey, your room is grey, your hands are grey. Death is painting the walls and filing your nails. She’s fixing your face for the open. Rosy cheeks, Sunday best under layers. The wind is grinding and still. She’s at the door.