Sharpshooting Memories Poem by Birgit Bunzel Linder

Your grief triggers my grief
And it comes in battalions.

They lift you up and carry you
Away from sharpshooting memories.

And they leave me in the trenches
Because time has made me a spy,

Who always defaults to the oldest wound,
A heart turned toward my Mecca of pain.

I don't know how old my injuries are,
But I have spied for relief at every corner.

And when I became the thief,
you became my casualty.