I almost met death.
It consumed my bones.
Beat them into a white powder.
Left its hoofs in my brain,
scattered my fingers.
It wanted nothing left of me.
No relic,
no shard of hair,
it said, “Be finished,
be gone,
you complain too much,
always feeling,
worrying,
instilling guilt in me.
You are a dust mote,
a crumbling grain
the water will wash away,
then I won’t have to listen to you.
What do I care that you love,
worship the sun,
drink in the sky.
The way of things is to be gone,
perish,
be a dry leaf
crumbled to nothing.”
So it was,
death was angry with me.
I spent too much time with him,
pointing out his flaws,
complaining that nothing rises
that wants to sink,
nothing sings
that wants to be mute,
so I made a bargain.
Death,
if you leave my cherished ones alone,
I will not complain.
I will go where you want me.
Even sing your praises
if you leave all beautiful things behind.
Perhaps we could play chess together,
take time out,
get to be friends,
and when you want to be alone
you can be rid of me,
go your dark way.
I would be the only friend you had,
and you could know
what tears are all about
and even join the living
if you’re inclined.