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Once I asked a friend what he wanted to be when he grew up.
He said ‘Alive.’
It is too real, this thing called death
that lurks in every person I know
that threatens to come before I am ready
and disregards my anger
like a spat out watermelon seed
It searches for me every day, maybe wanting to be friends
until I turn a corner and it tries not to crash into me but it’s too late
and there I am
and there you are
But we can’t be shocked, there’s no time, we’re too busy
besides, I knew it was there all along
in the flick of a pen, in the thud
of the last page
of my journal

please soak in the roses
and the aphids
and collect stories and coins and people
and funny moments
and poems

or out death Death
Death does not kill a part of himself
not like the baby so close
sucking its mother’s breast
sucking until it gets longer and longer and further and further away and longer
until it is a snake and I am sucking
out the poison of love and death
good and evil, it’s all in my body now
will I laugh or cry?

the only way is to curl in a ball under my quilt
breathe into my constricted constricting body
in and out
cause it always seems better in the morning.
I’ve always had a short memory.