Mistress of The Dance
Sometimes it seems that death is losing patience.
Sometimes her indifference gives me chills,
not unlike a girlfriend wanting her own space,
still the knowing without dying makes me ill.
I know she’s been here since I found my first breath,
but like a sibling that is easily ignored,
her presence in the background is never quite forgotten
until her dance steps finally take me off the floor.
For some her presence offers up a simple peace,
for others she’s a terror beyond words.
For me my fear’s about the work I’ve left undone,
but to think this current vessel could’s absurd.
To think that keeping death at bay is arrogance
I recognize is foolish, even humorous.
I’ve witnessed many fantasies of stalling death
from late night campfires to movies; it’s in all of us.
As a partner in this dance of life I recogninize
now, how fragile is the very choreography
that slows or trys at least to minamize
the moment when my partner’s finally done with me.
Her presence has been always, but my noticing
is more frequent since I walk these hopeless halls
and see the litter of the disrepaired and broken down
left still staring at these yellowed ivory walls.
I’m a transient member of this frail community,
committed to escaping with my soul intact.
But the moments when my partner hovers over me
make the days seem like I’m starting to lose track.
I’ve started naming holes and cracks worn in the floor,
observed on walks I labor through five days a week.
Hanging from my walker I greet every one.
She laughs because I can’t get them to speak.
A tracheotomy has helped to make my roommate mute,
when we visit, he writes I talk, we get along,
and I notice my dance partner’s fairweatherness
since the whore of death will dance to every song. embi 2/12/14 & 3/21/14
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