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Calendar Girl
You celebrate your Death-Day every year,
a “selfie” trampling on your grave-to-be,
without your knowing. Anniversary?
Through predetermined locks you have to steer.
As flotsam tumbles over each steep weir
in transit to the dark and formless sea,
you’ll pass the date of your finality
repeatedly, before the end-of-pier.
That day will dawn. It really will. The rows
of serried numbers, rigid, unforgiving,
that fill your calendar like Van Gogh’s crows
contain the fatal date. Your body knows.
You’ll dash about, stash cash and call it living,
but all your thrashing counts as dying throes.
Copyright ©
Michael Coy
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