Love You for a Long Time

Maggie Rogers

grief is a sneeze that doesn’t exhaust itself.

that huffs, puffs, threatens to blow

but ends with a whimper

not a bang.

when Yazoo’s “Only You” begins,

when I hear Momma’s loneliness,

when I smell the iced cranberry Wallflower,

my heart quakes and sends

the tsunami radiating

toward the lacrimal shore

above my eye.

but as quickly,

my body’s sea

swallows the wave

because I rub my thumb

against two fingers or

rotate my feet or

see five books

touch four oranges

hear three car horns

smell butter and popcorn

taste red velvet cake.

grief is also a sneeze that scares the cats.

running to the basement to hide

under the couch to avoid

the black dog’s arrival.

when I go to bed,

when Anna, Bella, Allie, Brooklyn, Caitlyn, and Chloe miss Pop,

when I see the Gone with the Wind movie poster—still wrapped in Tara-themed paper,

the tornado’s vacuum

removes the air from my lungs,

creating a vortex

of unspoken words,

(I should’ve asked you questions)

of spoken words,

(I complained the whole way)

of regret.

(I think about those moments all the time)

because what dies doesn’t stay dead

because if I didn’t know better,

I’d think you were listening to me now

because I do know better,

I feel it in my body,

know it in my mind,

I’m gonna love you for a long time

grief is repetition