Poor Death
I turn the light off
in the next room.
The dark does not rush me.
It waits
as if it has time.
The law says nothing ends.
It says only:
what moves
keeps moving.
I say this aloud
and hear how easily
the mouth agrees.
If I am part of that motion,
why does the word death
tighten the body
before the thought arrives?
Breath leaves.
Not dramatically.
It leaves the way heat does—
without asking
what will remember it.
I touch my wrist
and feel the small insistence
that pretends to be permanent.
It is not lying.
It is simply not finished.
Somewhere,
a star collapses
into something that refuses
our language.
We call it loss
because we have no word
for continuity
that does not include us.
Bone will loosen.
Names will fail.
What I have guarded as “mine”
will behave
according to rules
I already trust
everywhere else.
This is the part
I did not intend:
that fear is not of ending,
but of redistribution—
of becoming accurate
without being legible.
I rinse my hands.
The water does what it does.
No witness required.
Nothing is taken.
Nothing is kept.
The sum remains.
I am not exempt.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
