Poem at Death (if I died first)

Based on a Glosa. After “poem at 48”  by Jeff Hewitt

https://youtu.be/9jDUfpee6AQ

Original Poem Excerpt:

it's not the dying I fear

but the bleeding to death.

when it comes?

leave unruly.

unkempt.

bloodied

and unbowed.

. . .

get on with it, motherfucker.

Poem at Death (if I died first)

I’ve been scared of the dark since

I grew up. Since I learned what fear tasted like.

Since I learned what death tastes like.

It’s not bitter, or sweet, just quiet 

on the tongue. I think about blood 

often. As if my own were crying out

in camaraderie. 

As if the dark has blood of its own.

I light a candle at night;

it's not the dying I fear / but the bleeding to death.

I see the dark like 

a monster. All-consuming

Voracious. Starving.

Like all little kids do. But 

I’m not a little kid. I know the dark has teeth.

Know it bites. Know it pulls screams

from your throat like orange strings from

teeth. I carry the baseball bat you gave me

when I go on walks at night. Let you 

protect me from all those monsters

Can you protect me,

when it comes?

When it pulls me under?

When it caves in my ribs?

I am not a stranger to pain

to the way ribs creak under 

the weight of love.

the weight of grief.

If I’m going to fucking die

It’s going to be a spectacle

It’s going to be a goddamn parade. I’m gonna

leave unruly. / unkempt.

I will not make my bed in the morning.

If you’re going to grieve me you’re going to do it right.

Pack my blankets. Pack the stuffed bear you got me when 

I was six years old begging to ride the merry-go-round.

Death rides a horse when he collects you. A chariot of gold

and bones. If you’re going to grieve me

You’re going to do it

bloodied / and unbowed.

…

You’re going to do it with tears

in your throat. Gasping. Audible.

get on with it, motherfucker.