To Live
No, death is not
the answer,
ever.
And although the pain of
a deteriorating friendship,
a lover lost,
a mother dying,
a world unfriendly to change,
is enough to stall me for a day
or two or three or twenty,
it is the living,
the continuing to breathe
that will fix it all,
that will mend the broken toys
in my chest,
patch up the holes in the knees
of my jeans;
it is living
that will wrap its warm arms
around my throat –
a flannel-fleece scarf,
not a noose.
I do not ask for
forgiveness
that I cannot
wring from the wet sponge
offered to me as my life.
My life
is only mine
and I will swallow it
whole.
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