Tag Archives: death
What if memory’s just the dead, flourishing differently from how they flourished alive? — Carl Phillips, Stop Shaking Twenty-five years later, calm as compline, hushed as heavy snow, wired to a dozen impassive monitors, she left. Or rather, what remained, the mortal wound inflicted long ago: the loss, the betrayal, the accident that changed everything. […]
I mistook your light for substance, though you burned out long ago, the celestial aspects of your small body subsumed by the dark gravity of one larger, and me forgetting how a dead star may nonetheless shine from an irretrievable past, a glory of extinction no astronomer could ignore, yet the core collapsing and collapsing […]
Pray; tell: What do you keep out? And what, in?
I saw you there the night before, a leggy black pearl against the glossy white tub, and made a note: Spider. Remove before showering. And the next morning remembered too late, and bore your sodden body to the sunny deck rail where I had meant to leave you, alive. And lay you there gently, lifted […]
I. 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 […]
I dream they rise — the cowboys and soldiers, the housewives and teachers, the laborers — at some unknowable hour of secret, liminal nights, their coffins too small to contain their longing. Were they lost all their lives? Did they long to be visible, to be found, and are they, now, beyond the blind […]
You say nothing and what could you, what words can tongue the abruptly absent body? You will long for shock once it dissipates, but now this fearful frenzy, all that must be done when nothing can be done: the obit, the funeral, receiving the food, the cards. Helplessness weights the air like humidity in storm-bruised […]