Sorrow Poem by Steve McCord

sOrrOw Has

Sorrow has two eyes, with jackrabbit weather,
Which doesn't make our tears invisible,
Only invincible, to see us through, to see right through us.
Crossing tracks laid before flesh met flame,
Sorrow has two holes: an entry and exit wound.

Where one is hidden, decades can be spent searching
Or kneeling at the altar of stuttering vows.
Sorrow has a place
For a forefinger and thumb, to lift and carry
And then set down.

Who of us knows how to make a friend
Of emptiness, an acquaintance of grasping?
Floor boards creak, once the porch light goes cold.
Sorrow has two rings, never to wed thee;
No volume, just waves and trembles—
Two dials that twist
Us until we tune in
To hear our own broadcast.

Sorrow has horns enough to shred any bull-fighter's cape and
Cavorts with crocodiles at empty cribs and packed funerals;
Meaning doubled over, as if an artist drawing blood.

Sorrow has big plans and sore nipples;
She waits in her evening dress
In a cab at the curb of joy's last known address.
Like a noose or black ice, sorrow gives us the slip,
Or the finger, or the next dance.