The last hand
will be the embalmer's hand
his touch, not felt,
but still an act of care, of preparation
not really for me, but about me
in the minds of others, though
I will be gone
anything left of me
will be shrouds and frozen moments
which will thaw and vanish
like a snowman,
small twigs,
a carrot,
two lumps of coal
all the abandoned
totems of me,
attributed to
but not me
I may have learnt by then
the letting go of physical form,
perhaps
in the midst of some distress
or other,
sunk deep into a state of vagueness,
a gentle absence, the strengthening bay of calm
I can imagine all these things
beforehand, in premonition,
where
even the mere idea of no longer being here
can still collapse the stoic facade
what is it that the crying cannot bare
to leave or to lose?
or is being roughly torn out from a feeling of being,
the obit from a newspaper,
enough,
though
I will be gone, at some point,
in the time frame
of that imagined moment of partition
would I really long for more?
to prolong
the angst and anguish further
once
life and the kicking ceased, who am I
to miss it,
to desire the grand reunion?
having left this body behind,
the oldest coat, fondly remembered
with all its pockets and admirers,
but also
those loved and left behind, enfolded
by the arms of absence alone
none of whom have yet to broach
the entrance to that empty room
where I will be,
or won't be,
waiting,
pondering
what all that striving
and struggle
was in aid of.
written February 2021 by
Stephen Lumb
No comments:
Post a Comment