The Grief Iceberg

By Mim Markovic


If I let my shadow self take over
I would collapse in a messy jelly 'n' bone
heap on the floor like some
discarded, tasteless stew.

I would not shower or dress or put on my happy face
(so the world could see the real me and not just my personae)
the sheets on my bed would trap my greasy grief and soften and smell
of the sweat of my sadness and "I just can't be arsed" sentiment.

One inane, seductively-escapist, crap TV show would blur into the next
causing a brain-drain fug and i would slowly mutilate my once fertile mind.

My psyche would weep for the spiritual emptiness
in my world and existential angst overtaking my soul.

I would tell Carl Jung
that he can shove his
anima up his animus
(and laugh at the image).

Through this journey of bereavement
the tip of my iceberg continues to glisten and
stand erect showing the world that I am
strong, competent and resilient

(while the sharks and killer whales gnaw and nibble away beneath).