Grace McDonough

April 19, 2000 - Wichita, Kansas

1317

Is death an ancient ache
Like this one
The dull rattle in the murderous cavern
Lined with resin and dust and tar and pure guts
A reminder of the last cigar
Of our bruised and battered makeup

Is death the embrace of silence
This stillness that permeates
My rotten cavities
That trickles through arteries
Bleeds
And leaves behind internal wreckage
The likes of which you’ve never seen

Or is it sweet
Like the moan your lips release
When you take my body
And shake and make me scream
My legs weep
That cry of peace

Is it that big white hand
That envelops me
Somewhere to finally get good sleep

It might be so
It lives in me
It sees
Far beyond my periphery
Far out of reach

Death was not made for me alone
I don’t claim to know death
But I know

Death begins on a gray day
When the blue eye glazes over
Blazes into a crack in the concrete
Where a million dead filaments
Form static
A haze
That is when it is time to escape

When tenderness becomes the great facade
And one fails to recognize their own face
Death and the Fates
Assume their human form
And you put on your own black robe
In pure day, in a field of golden hay

Death and dullness
Expose your cowardice
Until decay reigns.
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