Stephanie Kartalopoulos

Grief

If you find shrapnel embedded in tissue, leave it be. No use to remove
what remains fixed in place. If you find shrapnel scattered in a dream, then dream
about how hard it must be to touch a pile of bones and imagine what connects

them into something whole. As hard as running your fingers over a polished stone
and expecting to find cracks and frozen cobwebs. But if you find
the shrapnel I have left for you in the box behind the kitchen sink, treat it

like you would a ream of silver paper. Imagine the change from circuits
and pipes to jewelry, or the veined surface of a full moon. Shape
the pieces together. Add flux. Seal the surface with a strong flame. 

Burn a bond of light and watch the pieces lock into each other. Make
something so unshakable that each time it would catch a glint of light, it has
no choice but to throw it out against the small, faceted edge of night.

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Stephanie Kartalopoulos’ first book of poems, Amulet, was published in 2018 with Saint Julian Press. Her work has appeared in journals that include 32 Poems, Comstock Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Laurel Review and Grist: A Journal for Writers. Stephanie lives in Atlanta with her husband and her cat, Dancer.