death can't breathe on tuesdays
In the otiose evening of August —
it is always August — you are dead.
Death is so loud, I say, or think I say,
between the clamorous pangs
drowning a whole world out.
I do my best to sit with your death,
a wish whispered to the heavens, returned
as something so deafening,
as something so boisterously full,
it fills my body until I’m dead too.
Death is so hungry, I say, I’m sure I say,
this insatiable mass of knowing, floating
high above myself, my death reaching
to catch your death,
keep it quiet.
My death gathers and gorges on your death.
My death makes a feast of the noise.
My death makes your death not quite so real.
I make your death my death until:
In the otiose evening of August —
it is still August — you are resurrected.
Another wish whispered to the heavens,
a loss still relentlessly present:
Be still, this grief, go home.
2023-06-27