The Grieving and the Dying

The grieving and the dying
just go on and on. It's amazing
what a life they have,
this life of loss.
Neither right nor wrong,
this fucking heart.
Who knew the story
would be all about pain?
Who knew
you'd be asked to give everything, then
give up some more?
How is it
that the birds
singing and chirping this morning
are so unconcerned by this,
do not even know
loss's name? How could humans
have ever thought they were better
than the animals, a life
of suffering superior to a life of song?
You'd do me a great kindness,
you gods, to let me come back
with flight and music as my only goals.
Of course,
they are my only real goals now—
but i don't reach them
with the ease the birds do—
except for love—
that's the one, the hook
where i am caught and the flesh
around my mouth tears,
and i bite down harder,
unwilling to let go.