Ghost pains

After I died, of course, form didn’t matter.

Relief of a kind I
could not articulate
(lacking a mouth).

I had been poured
into genes; the body’s
kismet commenced.

I was not glorious; nor was I inadequate.

My limbs worked.
I had a heart, mysterious;
a brain that could not understand it.

I did not die young
of sickness. I was
not fatally injured.

I lived long enough to grow weary.


Shall I tell you what
I miss, what pains
me now, in absence?

The containment of
skin; the arc of
tension between bodies.

The gaps I could
not bridge. What flesh
made desirable,

and impossible.
The very separateness
that vexed me

while alive. Still,
I am happier now.

You believe me, don’t you?




  1. Ah … intriguing to project what I’ll feel once “dead” – to me end-of-life implies beginning-of-other, and you offer some curious perspectives on the other. None of us get much of a preview!

    I grow weary on and off … not yet weary enough to abandon hope for a rebound. One thing I feel certain about: no desire to prolong life if that means simply breathing on my back in a hospital bed for days and days – would rather just go while walking to the mailbox or some other task I’m no longer up to.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. All a big mystery — though I, too, hope that end implies beginning.

      Liked by 1 person

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