Practice by Aubrey Brady

Practice

I practice grief every day

as if
pulling all these possibilities
lifting layers of loss
shuffling through frantically
scribbled sheaves

as if I can stop whatever tragedy I can predict

because
while I slipped my feet into
sands warmth flooding
my being with gold
listening to largeness
of water
coming and going
I also let slip
the memory of grandaddy’s
fading health
how he was slowly
disappearing into cold
blue beds and white walls
how
when i turned
he was gone

and because
when I am pulling belts
around fragile bodies
propelling us towards distances
I know
that if I can prepare myself
for a car’s swerve
the rush of metal that can slice
through bone
and all that’s dear
it will not
or has not

and because
each joy
turns eventually
tragedy launching itself
into every tender moment
spinning soft wool
into spikes

because
the body always betrays
either through its plush fragility
or brain bleeds
or heart’s assault
or cells turned rogue
or if lucky
entropy,

and so I practice
each note
each line
and prepare
so busy hoarding preserves
I miss how the light holds
the peach fuzz curve
of shoulder blade
how laughter
breathless and unrelenting
feels the same as sorrow.

*

Aubrey Brady studied music at Covenant College and is working on her MFA in Creative Writing with an emphasis in poetry at Lindenwood University. Her work has appeared in Solum Press, Book of Matches, Ekstasis, Moria, and Barbar. She lives in Montana with her husband, Matthew, and their two children.