Five Little Poems of Death
\nby
\nRadiance Angelina Petro<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Look around\u2014say it:
\n\u201cDeath is here.\u201d Nothing
\nbetter to strengthen
\nthe heart. Make a gesture
\nas if in protest? Close the door
\nand find something to tie
\nit fast? Try untying the ribbon
\nfrom your hair. Death\u2019s robes
\nare not folds of dark upon dark.
\nThey are embroidered with roses,
\nand light as air.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
During the night, death, like
\nthe smell of bread and cornfields
\nloosens itself from the trees,
\ndescends into the bright morning, gently
\napologizes for any trouble it may have
\ncaused, and then changes the fatiguing
\nmind and love\u2019s special grief,
\ninto its own nourishment
\nfor the long journey home.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
Death is homeless–
\nafoot in the world,
\ntrying to missionize
\nanyone. A homeless
\ndeath is chaos, relentless
\nin trying to enter
\nour story, with the hope
\nthat we are just as lost
\nas they are.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
Be mindful, they say–missing the obvious–
\nan overture gone profoundly wrong.
\nJust know they have never left the city even once.
\nDeath is in our skin, and whatever goes missing
\nwhen we focus the breath will return found–our love of stuff,
\nour local ancestry of what may have once been called home.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
What have I done? This ecological truth,
\nthe footprints, this damage control,
\nthis ragged edge of being alive.
\nIn some corner of myself the belligerent
\nwound will not scab\u2014the debt I owe
\nto my children and grandchildren
\nbeyond where I stand.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n