Archive for body

The First Consideration Is the Disposition of the Corpse

November 12, 2009 at 11:27 pm · Filed under body, death, fire, poem, poetry, sundown

Burial at sundown is one option,
lest the wolves draw near tonight,
but a pyre, I think, be better,
because it consumes, purifies,
yes, and because heat and light
could attach to our skin, you and I,
while dead words float away,
smoke and ash on a freshening wind.

Let us gather, then, dry branches,
help me wrap this curse’d day
in white linen, and strike a match
to my stubbled cheek, that we might,
together, immolate this wretchedness
before we are overcome
by the stench of rot.

The we can go down into night
and set about living again tomorrow.

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Old Love, New Love

October 18, 2009 at 11:36 pm · Filed under body, fingers, human heart, love, lovers, poetry, prose

Old love is like an old suit of clothes,
well-worn at the elbows and knees
from all the years of hard work and
from all the crawling.   At one time,
perhaps, you could have said it was
comfortable, but now it’s just small
and sad — tight through the back
and arms, harder to move, harder
to breathe, you just have to suck in
your waist, hold your breath, and zip.

New love is like a new penny that
glints in the sun so you pick it up
for luck, shiny and bright, a perfect
circle with perfectly smooth edges,
and turn it over and over in your
pocket where no one else can see.
You have become a collector of
pretty things that catch the light,
a blackbird caching treasures.

Old suits are worn at weddings
and funerals — your funeral —
the black wool blend pressed crisp,
the creases sharp, the collar stiff
as a cadaver, everything neater
than when you were living.

They’ll say such a perfect match,
cut from the same cloth.   No one,
not even the undertaker who
bathed and dressed you, will
notice the small copper disk
in your left breast pocket, resting
on your rock-still heart, a treasure
to take with you to the ground.

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