"Grief Is", Conan Tan
tomorrow is tomorrow until they haul you
into the furnace. legs first, then the bones, then
all the eulogies that follow. pa, i am nineteen
years too young for this: the herbal chicken soup
spilling out of the pot. the polo shirts ah ma
no longer has to iron. my childhood folding
into origami you taught me to make at seven.
there are sparrows circling our windows with
the hollowness of air. the walls a longing blue.
look at how quickly the mind becomes a vessel
for loneliness. at how it takes the shape
of a bullet dislodged gently in the chest
before shock wears off & leaves these palms
an open sky. every morning bleeds itself
into a goodbye i cannot bear to say. so, hear
these words instead: that grief is like a bed
half empty & yet half full with the leftovers
of you. that i sleep with ma sometimes & tell her
about the boy i have fallen in love with, how
he is gingered with touch & makes soup
almost as good as yours & that means you
would have liked him too. pa, come, let me
show you your final home & how it is built
on loss & that means love. in the family
photo albums & the polo shirts we keep
in your closet. on the new couch we want to buy
but will save a seat for you. in between the corners
of paper cranes creased with the first time
you taught me to always fold the paper in half
but to never let my body do the same. pa, do not
worry. we will not let the sun drag an anchored
sky across the living room floor. but we will let
tomorrow bless & salt our mornings with grief
to always be around to remember you.
/ Conan Tan (he/they) has too much trauma they spin into poems. These poems have been published in Blue Marble Review, Eunoia Review and QLRS among others. Most notably, he was the winner of the 2022 National Poetry Competition for his poem “Prodigal”.
/ COMMENTARY
“This beautiful poem doesn’t just describe grief — it peels it apart, layer by layer. We’re taken into intimate depictions of the poet’s domestic lies and memories with his father, with soup, polo shirts, and origami acting as motifs throughout the poem. I particularly loved the images related to cooking (“the leftovers / of you,” “gingered with touch,” “salt our mornings with grief”), which poignantly echo the poet’s father’s impending journey “into the furnace.” ”