Knowing it would end

did I ghost my life,
indentured to
some lesser master,
determined not to breathe
too gladly, and

was I afraid
of my body’s fierce
appetites, how it
loved food,
needed water,

wanted you,

how in the same
moments it longed
to be free,
and caught,

as if paradox were its
natural disposition, the
skeleton on which human
flesh accretes, innocent
and scarred,

that it might speak the
native tongue of the
incarnate world, bloodied
and exuberant,

that it might say,
I am here;
I am real
for a while, and

did I listen at last
and fill my lungs with
the breath of every
perishing thing
I love?





  1. It seems you knew what I was feeling. I thought I had written it all to myself. He was a youth to my age, family to my heart and made my heart pound til I was blind.
    You have a refreshing lack of cliché in your poem. It was comforting.


    1. I’m very glad. Thank you for reading and responding.


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