March
Coroner,
line up our caskets, please
Those sleek unnumbered dominoes
For time moves
With discomfort as unwieldy as certain silence,
So disjointedly
That its scurvied hands seem to
Stop, stretch,
Then begin again.
These
days are our bunches
Of fresh-picked smiles
And when we are ready
We shall slide into our coffins
With the ease of warm unthreatening water.
So,
please, have them ready, Coroner
So that we might dash inside
Superheroes in a phone booth
With dashed hopes and a faint notion
Of what afterlife might really entail
Stale on our breath like a daughter's kiss.
This life is overrated anyway.
*
You sit, gaze out the window,
Demure, disinterested.
Your tea still too hot to drink. My coffee steaming.
You
gaze out the window, the faintest fog
Of your breath against the glass.
Your hair, furled into an insecure bun.
Your eyes, directed toward the window pane.
You are so far from what you need.
We meet in dark brown eyed expression.
You
get tormented so easily.
A
smile that says,
"What adventures we've had!"
So knowing, so peaceful, your chamomile smile.
Sipping carefully, you phrase your question.
"So
you'll help me." The cup, just seconds
from your lips, pauses for my response.
Once more I refuse.
Once more you implore, this time with your hand
On mine. "I can't live in this world,"
You explain, "I cant stay here much longer."
*
With
each breath,
She became more and more aware that she could die.
That life was so beautiful,
Could be so beautiful, only because of its impermanence.
She
observed life as others experienced it.
Hers was not a haven of brown-eyed-susans. Hers
Was an intricate lattice of forget-me-nots
And the most delicate, most innocent roses.
Some
of the kids at school used to tease her,
Call her a freak, or Death Girl
Like some fallen superheroine.
But
they never saw her when the sun kissed her eyelashes,
Never the sepia rainbows in her freckles,
Never the copper kitten she could be. In fact-
Sometimes,
when she was quiet for a long time,
Staring at nothing, it seemed,
I could look at her for a long while
And feel unmolested.
*
She
gave me her watch to wear.
I like it all the time, except at night.
At night it ticks loudly,
Filling the room.
The sound of time passing.
I
take it off, nights,
Hide it under a stack of clothes in the drawer.
The only light is pale
And silver,
Lilting warily into the room, falling on my ankles.
I
have to wait a few seconds
To make sure I can't hear it.
The silence is too chaotic,
Too disturbed for me
To be sure.
I hold my breath. I wait
To be sure of the stillness of time.
*
The
body swung from the roofbeams.
It wore a white dress,
Pock-marked with eyelet embroidery.
Like a slaughtered ballerina,
It made quiet, graceless turns, feet pointed down.
And I touched it, tenderly, on the calf.
Though
warm, it no longer felt like a living being.
The leg was hairless, a slight sheen to it.
Soft. Gamy almost.
I held fast to it, until I felt drops of wet sliding over my fingers.
"The
bladder empties when you die," she had warned me,
"as does the bowel."
*
And
there she hung, the most beautiful being
I had ever known. Transported
-as if by magic, by default-
to a better place. Thanks to me. Me who helped
kick the life out of her,
kick the chair out from under her,
wheeling her into the next world.
*
Although
I'm now left with a bunch
Of wilted flowers that I picked for her,
I live in the hope that somebody else will want them.
I
sit and watch others make their love-
How
many are beautiful?
How many understand themselves?
How many cling to false hopes?
How many feel guilt at the drop of a dime?
Misty
early winter days are made for me.
The feeling of loss, yet knowledge
That nothing was lost.
Children's
games
But no children.
*
[back
to top]
|
