Wooden Comfort

By Trystan Popish

Not long after Jesi died, 

I wander Pike Place Market, and find 

a store of imported Asian goods. 

While stroking vibrant textiles  

I cannot afford, I see  

a box of weeping yogis. 

I reach for a tiny figure  

carved into a sphere. 

His face is hidden, 

but his body wails. 

His torso collapses in on itself 

like a dying star, 

his limbs enclosing his core. 

There is no space for anything 

to enter here, to intrude 

upon the gravity of his grief. 

I pick out one and pay the price. 

He fits nestled in the palm 

of my clenched hand, 

made of a wood so soft 

my fingernails leave crescents 

in his skin 

if I’m not careful. 

For weeks I fall asleep and wake 

with my weeping yogi 

embedded in my fist, his back curled 

against the concave curve of my palm, 

my fingers gently cradling his head, 

my hands frantically praying  

that this piece of wood 

absorbs sorrow like water. 

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Trystan Popish (she/her) is an emerging writer of poetry and personal essays, currently working on her first book of poetry, The Blue Desolation.