Death is a wind that will carry you off
sometime before the following dawn.
It may start with a lake-scented draft
from the cane break behind the house,
or a breeze through an open door
filling your nostrils with your
mother's party perfume: White Gardenia.
Rolling over your body like a North
the remembering, bringing the end of
The dying dog you fed, the crying child
comforted; these will stay in the
But the soul-blackening betrayals will
with time itself and the dark pockmarks
heart will fall like sad rain to the
Your eyes will be as vast as the sky
around you and you will wonder how they
so obediently in your head.
Your bones will be gone. Your head will
leak into all
air, your hands become breath.
Below, you will hear the weeping
at the end of a bad opera.
It will not occur to you that you could
be missed by anyone.
You will be following the irresistible
scent of a rose
in full bloom not knowing you are in
Not knowing you are nowhere to be
Click here for the index to Abbie's other poems.