I’ve begun to speculate
on how I will react
to the news
of your passing;

will I, as is customary
for my age and gender and tribe,
stoically free but a single tear after
a deep longing sigh? No —

I think, instead,
the air will fill with stones
so that breathing and bruising
become the same thing;

I think, instead,
that stones will cover my path
and I will stumble for miles
no matter which direction I choose;

I think, instead,
that my eyes will become stones 
and I will not see anything I fall upon,
will never know everything that has broken me.