above the shawarma kebab shop & the bank of china on sauchiehall street glasgow
the word GRIEVE is etched into the red sandstone tenement like a command. i obey. lower my eyes. think of the saddest thing i have ever known. it involves a dog. i google grieve sauchiehall street glasgow. it reads: grieve, couture dress & mantle maker glasgow 1903–1935. images of tulle bodices, feathered hats & hand-embroidered silk frocks appear. on the cusp of the new year, my mother discovers temu. this is grief of a different kind––O non-biodegradable sequins! O electrostatic polyester! O incessant temu pop-ups offering $1 hats & four awful dresses for the price of two! i told mum i didn’t approve. that was before i saw the stella mccartney dupes for $13.99. i google how do we know when we’re finished grieving? the first link offers virtual grief therapy, the initial fifteen minutes are free. the remaining minutes will be captured on facial recognition technology installed at the self checkout of your loss & paid for with the loose coins from the slot machine of your heavy heart. link number two says important signs that grief is winding down include the return of a present or future-facing orientation, which sounds like gymnastics might be involved. my advice, not listed on google: delete the temu app. wrap yourself in your mother’s balding candlewick robe. lasso the frayed cord around the mustang of your loss. drink south australian shiraz at midnight under the same sky you crayoned black when you were a child. clutch the handlebars of your sorrow. it is winter, your fingers will go numb. grip harder. this will do little to alleviate your sadness, the point is to keep feeling it. make sure you are adding one part despair to two parts wine. if your proportions are correct the extremities of your world will start to crumble. crumble like this for a minimum of three hours each night. you will still be sad, that part doesn’t change. do this consistently for the rest of your life. it will feel like the closest thing to
heaven.
Ali Whitelock is a Scottish poet/writer living on the south coast of Sydney with her French chain smoking husband. Her poems have appeared in various magazines and journals globally. She recently released her 3rd collection of poetry, ‘a brief letter to the sea about a couple of things.’ Her collection, ‘the lactic acid in the calves of your despair’ was long listed for the Australian Gold Medal for outstanding literature. Her memoir, ‘poking seaweed with a stick & running away from the smell’ was published to critical acclaim in both Australia and the UK.