I WON’T TELL YOU HOW TO HOLD YOUR GRIEF 

I keep mine in a ziploc 

baggie, unreliably sealed 

in the bottom of my purse.

Crumbs of it leave tracks 

everywhere I go. I won’t tell you 

how to make your grief portable.

I know some grief must be 

as large as a refrigerator. Maybe

bigger. I won’t tell you how 

often I’ve wished to eat

mine whole, let its black tar 

body rot in the in-betweens

of my teeth. I can only tell you

about the ways I’ve snarled 

and snapped at others’ grief 

like it’s something I don’t recognize 

in the mirror, like it’s something 

I could look away from if I tried. 

Micaela Walley is an MFA candidate at the University of Baltimore. Her work can be found in Huffpost, ENTROPY, Hobart, and Gravel. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland with her best friend--Chunky, the cat.