Remission Poem by Christopher Barclay

Grief is the virus
that surges and retreats
without cure.

It lingers dormant
in the dark recesses
of memory.

Tears are the vector
that spread its contagion
among us.

It seems I’ve beat it
then there’s a welling up
in my throat.

I feel the tremor
and then a convulsion
that chokes me.

There is something sharp
tugging like a barbed hook
of regret.

I can’t escape when
every cell remembers
how things were.