Joseph Lisowski writes

FROM DEATH’S SILENCE [part II]

ONGOING DELUSION

A small moth, bouncing near lamp and wall,

alights on my table, tests its surface.

It flips into a rim of water,

squiggles twice on surface wetness,

then lies still as if dead.  Minutes later,

it drags itself to dryness, trailing

a faint line of fluid but finally stops.

Heat from a lamp evaporates its path.

I am in the presence of death

but wait pointlessly for flight.

WRAPPED TIME

Grief contracts suddenly

like a muscle spasm.

Nothing but time spells release.

When the intensity leaves,

I massage my hurt.

Too late for comfort,

too soon for regret.

The ache is part of the program,

like breathing, eating.

Flushed chambers of the heart

pump blood free.  The cycle, though,

is the same.  All veins lead back

to the same heart, the same hurt.

I am bound in my body.

All movement stays inside.

My daughter's body is still.

She is elsewhere,

nowhere I can touch.

DREAM

A man dreams

that he is a new man,

neither young nor old.

He stands against

a grey background,

maybe clouds,

maybe an ordinary room.

He is whole, seamless.

Others drift by

and fade into grey.

A few notice him.

And he spins his hands

which have no fingers

but five large triangles

of fine-beaten gold

sparkling from each hand.

They are close to each other

and whirling.  They create a sun.

Tremendous peace fills him.

He transmits life beyond death.

Those who notice

are caught in the stream.

Later, he looks into a cave

and sees himself in a dark pond,

wedged in a corner,

exposed to his chest.

An old electric hairdryer

lies nearby, hot with electricity.

He feels that its owner

may throw it in the water.

He decides the worry is for another time.

He turns back to his spinning hands.

More come and leave in the light.

STILL LIFE

Grief is an amputated hand,

blood fast running out,

each cell yearning for connection,

finding only empty air.

Then a numbing.

Edges curl back

first blue, then grey.

Then black.  It becomes

a lifeless thing

that hardens

and in slow measure

becomes ash.

PREFERENCE:  RULES

I do not want to write

I do not want to think

I do not want to work

I do not want to cook

I do not want to clean

I do not want to talk

I do not want to read

I do not want to dream

I do not want my daughter dead.