Monday, June 8, 2015

Deathbed Poets

Will hold your hand. Wipe your ass.
Tell tall tales about the coming glories,
Fetch your slippers, fluff the pillow.
Deathbed poets agree with all you say
And will echo it back with genuine pride
In their voices; but otherly, with a lofty
Flair. If weeping threatens to breach
The walls built against such onslaught,
It’s unlikely to bear surprises. Reborn
So often—who would ever want to be
Deathbed poets for them?—they wither
On vines, in bed with the roses. But this
Isn’t about their martyrdom, it’s about yours
And the magnificence that awaits you. 
Take my hand, and start at the beginning.
Tell me what things were like when you
Were little, or have you always been
This old, confined to this deathbed? 
In that case, you might be a poet, too! 
Take my hand; let’s make the thorns
And perfume sing till the nurse returns!

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