After the first gush, the rest sticks
inside, like glue in an upturned bottle.
The viscous gooey stuff
drips a drop now and then
at the most inconvenient times,
like when you hear a certain song
or meet a stranger who reminds you
of whoever or whatever is gone.
Long after you think grief is over,
another song, another stranger.
Much later, grief hardens
into something you can hold
to the light, examine like a seashell,
and press to your ear.
first appeared in Redheaded Stepchild
Richard Allen Taylor, Poet 