Grieve Project

Selected Works

The following is a hand-picked collection of works from all of our volumes of Grieve.

Earth Oven
Preparation begins by heating the stones. Next, lay the food down cover with earth and leave for many hours.
Blackie
that day I forgot to shut the gate I ran all streets calling you
Sa tiyán ng lupà
My friends tell me to cry grief is healthy like exercise or lentils rivulets weave their way down my face trace its topography salty tidal marks on my neck
Tears and the Sea
I found a lump. Sounds innocuous when you say it like that. It was about the size of a pea. Really, it was. Small. Hard. Painless. I was sitting watching telly with my boys and my hand was resting under my armpit as I massaged my sore muscles from the day’s swim.
Nine Hillcrest Street
Friday mornings, Mrs M goes to the library to take up where she finished the week before. Knitting in nonfiction; SWE in fiction; foreign languages or large print—wherever it is she was up to. Electronic media and books for the young: the only exceptions to her rule. As someone checking each and every spine for something they are yet to read—or someone in search of a title piquing—she runs her finger along each book of every shelf until she comes across that for which she is searching: a book out of place.
Agnes and Pa
Agnes’ pa used to embarrass her. Even in ICU he embarrassed her—the scent of unwashed hair and old cigarettes, the tatts from his navy days and the answers she had to give the organ donation nurses. They couldn’t use his organs in the end but she kept his handprints and locks of hair in a sealed envelope, a tangible memory in shades of black, white and grey.
Finding Grief
I’ve spent fifteen years trying to numb the hurt and push down the pain. I’ve tried to drown the darkness in wine and whiskey. Stuffed in food to squash and silence the sorrow. Run marathons hoping to outrun the demons. For fifteen years I have failed.
My Mourning
They say my mourning has gone on long enough. Those people who never came and sat beside your bed while your life slowly slipped away. Those people who use their words as though there was some poetry in your death.
What Would You Say?
Driving to the beach the other day, you were in the car beside me and it made me happy. I was talking to you and you were smiling. I made up things that you would say and we laughed together. Without even turning to look at you, I could see you.
A Story About Love
She’s fighting with herself as she leaves his room, trying not to fall apart before she reaches the nurse’s station; all along the corridor gathering herself up, as if the foyer was a hurdle she had to leap—every day asking herself the same question: how can she possibly leave him here?
If
A woman I barely know says she understands what I’m going through; she can imagine the horror of losing a daughter. ‘I couldn’t go on with life if I lost mine,’ she says. I wish that ‘if’ was mine. The woman’s ‘if’ means she cannot understand.
Are You There?
If I should pick and unpick my way across torn dreams spun tight over long years, if I collect the fragments and bones and artefacts and examine them diligently for signs and omens, is it enough? Shall I find you again?

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