it is a death. a warm death, like
the soft insides of elbows or pews;
the hands of a statue, the grey
of a single open eye. a death that gently
knees us in the crotch,
a hope for some thing still to come:

a quiet death,
a death that floats through rooms.
a disenchanted lung.

a death that never touches earth.
a death that moves endlessly through the air;
one that does not prop open your mouth
or count, over and over, the knuckles
of your spine
or make pockets in your skin, or blacken your cells,
or never allow you to eat.

a death that hangs from the hinges
whispering as you open the door, the sound
that haunts you. the one in your floor
board, the one that your flesh makes slamming
against other flesh, the sound of fucking,
the sound that love makes in the winter
the sound of searching for firewood,
the sound of a child, standing still, alone
at the end of their driveway, looking up at the sky
in the early evening, waiting for the first star,
waiting for a wish, a kiss, a reason,
a ball to kick. a log to walk along.

a death that you have followed and that has
followed you. patiently filling boxes with old love letters,
fingering the eager flaps of the envelopes,
the addresses written in lead. the poison of a tongue
or a tooth, the poison of a single nerve set aflame

the soft rev of an airplane engine,
the way the red of the warning lights
noses through the clouds. the calling out
from the control tower, the calm
yet irrevocable avoidance of motion,
the curl of digestion after a large meal, or clipping
your toe nails before bed.

the air nudging your skin, the feeling of being found

a death--
one that throws its self at your feet,
one that lies in the bathtub and stares up at the ceiling
from beneath the surface, slowly
allowing the water to fill its lungs,
one that climbs the ladder of your ribs
when you are scared, taking the last train
out of the city towards an unknown
destination, towards home.

a death that remembers, a death that forgets.
a death that leaves its scent on your pillow case;
a thick scent, a distinct scent that you
cannot wash out, or cover over, one that
sleeps under your skin. one that wraps its fingers
around the strands of your hair.

a death. any death. one
that wakes you by rubbing its head
against your collarbone, one
that can only be happy watching the sun
rise in the desert, at the shore
of an ancient ocean, one
that stalls your ignition at the end of the day, one
that cools as it rests
on the window sill, waiting to be roused
by the first
stir of morning

09/23/2001

Posted on 09/23/2001
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