New poem.
inside this
clothing
an average wrapper of
slightly sagging skin upon
an average man
who’s been eaten smaller
by his age
he undresses himself
before sleep
stands in front of
a former enemy
a mirror
sees
wisdom about
and love for
himself
revealed in how
his folded hands rest
upon his loose husk
of a belly
those things
were once
so hard
to see
now they stand out
against approaching
Dark
and offer him
surprising comfort
before Sleep
New poem.
This waning,
this decay,
this slowdown —
this is
my body. This
stubborn
raw stone in a shoe, this
broken heel, this bad toenail,
this slash in a sole. This is
my body: what I own,
all I own. Don’t
care much for it; free it
to care for itself or not,
let it feed
on what’s at hand. This old
pirate stealing my speed.
This old eyelid in full drop,
this old endgame wondering
if tonight tomorrow or next after that
will bring an end — well, well.
I say: let it. Let me
slow down to crawl,
then to belly skid,
then to full stop —
I will still be as beautiful then
when I am in those first moments
after I die and my body — this
hesitancy, this now permanent delay —
lies absolutely still. I will surprise you
with that sudden marble intensity after a life
of frenzy, with my meditation
on how not to move.
This is my body
now, soon to be no longer mine.
When I’m gone you’ll speak of
what was left behind:
you’ll speak of
a rot-fallen willow.
Not I.
If something of me can still speak
it will sing of this body
and of how it was
imperfect, but was never
a mistake.
Currently I am in transition
from easily visible, solid, and present
to softly hazed and hard to see.
You offer sympathy?
I turn it gently aside.
Nothing painful to this.
I am, rightly or not,
beginning to fade from view,
preparing to sleep through
a slow apocalypse.
The sequence of expected events
is not important.
How my time will slide out from under me
is not important.
I am in this moment, called now.
I remember my history, called then.
I don’t own either of them.
None of us
own any of it
and none of us
will decide what happens after us
and most of us
are going to be forgotten
in the moment
we’re done.
Currently I am in transition
toward sleeping through
the rest of our slow apocalypse.
All the signs point to it
from the hot wind and the scarce bees
to the gray water in the Arctic and
the permafrost relinquishing its hold.
When it comes, that ending,
that curtain,
when it comes
it will come in obliquely.
It will not be swift.
It will take a long time to happen.
It has taken a long time already.
It is taking its time with us.
When it comes, that disaster,
that shaking off,
when it comes
I will be asleep
and I pray
I will not be dreaming.
Currently I am in transition
already asleep and waiting
in the now that will erase the then
eventually. I am fading from view
and being forgotten.
I am
the harbinger of the slow apocalypse.
Perhaps
I am a whore or a broken seal
but I am
no horseman riding frantically,
no multi-headed beast,
certainly not a soldier in any army
evil or righteous.
If you want to know
how it will be,
see this body bloated and sluggish
and this mind resigning position after
position. See how hard it is
to lay your finger on me.
Currently I am in transition.
I think, now, you might know what I mean.
If you want to, if you feel it,
go ahead and scream your eyes out.
I did that too, a while ago.
I got over it.
I will be here when you are done.
Currently I am in transition
but I will wait for you.
For today’s users
what is old means nothing
if it’s not remixed —
They pick the bones
confidently salvaging whatever they can
even if it was not what was intended —
The old context
that’s now a rag of skin
around the skeletal neck —
All that’s left is for it
to be torn free
from what still matters —
those shiny bones
that clatter so beautifully
though they used to sing —
No remark upon sadness
or mutilation even if it is an improvement
can be tolerated —
context and the past
will just drag the bones down
into filthy graves —
I am unopposed to progress
Slew my own old dragons in my day
Still do my fair share of junking through them —
but cannot help thinking
of how they once roared
and burned —
were they not
the most lovely horrors
without my meddling —
Perhaps now
it is close to my turn
for the scrapheap —
this must be why I understand
such fires as theirs
and how they turned them against us
The noise passed.
We were left behind.
We were lonely at first.
We became accustomed to it.
The noise had been young,
made of all the things of youth:
insistence, shouting, imploring.
We’d gotten over these. We’d
changed, or the noise had become
anathema, or the shouters had
decided against us. (That last one hurt
as certainly as abandonment always does.)
But we moved on by standing our ground.
We didn’t stop what were doing: noticing,
affirming, finally growing moss, attending to
the deeply worn grooves and paths
that the noise had used to pass us by
and then left behind. Look,
we whispered to no one, here’s a stone
I’ve never seen, here’s a new flower.
It was quiet when we said these things.
We could hear first ourselves, then each other.
Now, the noise has become
distant. We sometimes hear single words
rise above that faraway clamor:
“elders,” “honor,” “legendary;”
words for someone else
to ponder and debate,
as we have our work to do and fierce,
stubborn love for this new quiet we do it in.
