Grief came quiet—
shoved in gloveboxes
with old rego papers
and blunt tools
kept for no reason.

Tears weren’t banned,
just lost
between Dad’s silence
and busted knuckles,
between she’ll be right
and a door
that clicks shut slow.

We didn’t cry
when the dog died,
didn’t cry at the funeral,
didn’t cry
when she walked out.

Just sat there.
Fence posts in floodwater.

We break
in the gut,
in the jaw,
in the muscle it takes
to say I’m fine.

No one taught us
where to put the weight,
only
not to drop it.

Ryan Stone