I die again and again.
"You're killing me" “I could just die” "I'll die without . . . . "
The idioms of quick death flow through us like cartoon characters who,
crushed and flattened, peel themselves off the pavement with a pop
and go full steam ahead, still fuming, having learned nothing.
I’ve slipped out of worlds—sometimes before I know I will—
leaving relationships, quitting jobs, changing my faith.
And this latest death. The one where a brother acts like I am dead,
and I finally agree to die, to live without him.
I’ll tell you what this dying is like.
First there is trying to duck under the pain of becoming
the flattened Road Runner. Or Coyote. Victimized or defeated villain,
the crushing feels the same.
And then there is peeling up and floating above—not embodied—
suspended and looking down at yourself in that situation.
Up there you are cut off, adrift, a shell of a boat with a useless anchor.
And then there arises (like a lump in the throat) a desire to live again.
Re-entry hurts like a short PING if you get up and walk away,
but like a very long slow FIRE if you think you’ll stay and try again.
Fire. Embers, then ashes.
If you become part of the pattern, if you choose to re-anchor
instead of hoisting sails and flying
or simply floating away.
There is loss either way--loss of limbs and organs.
Tears fall, but for no reason
if you have been blessed with forgetfulness.
In these frequent deaths it’s hard to tell where the blessing lies.
Is it in the experience before dying?
The dying? or the resurrection?
For me, each has had its poetry.
Poets United Poetry Pantry #362
My blog poems are rough drafts.
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