A clown goes on a podcast about grief
He’s Catholic as Catholic can be, the youngest of eleven children
When his mother died, the first object of hers he claimed was a
crucifix
That had hung on her bedroom wall
He quotes Tolkien, “What of God’s punishments are not gifts?”
He calls his grief his tiger
A dangerous pet to keep in your house, a pet you would not choose
But his nonetheless
He spoke of being the last one left, who
When asked whether a funny story is true, says, I don’t know
Anyone I could ask is gone
The keeper of the heap
The clown’s son needed a belt, and the clown said, I have one for
you in my closet
His son’s name was Peter
When the clown gave Peter the belt, Peter asked, whose is it, and the
clown said
Peter’s
But it was the other Peter, the one the clown hadn’t seen in forty
years
As he shuffled from place to place, carrying his dead brother’s belt
I could pretend here that the belt would leash the tiger
But we all know that would be a lie
