Thoughts On A Death

Thoughts On A Death

Here is the chair

The chair where cancer comes and takes you

Takes you from this room

This room where a man stares out the window

The window that birds fly into constantly


A bird hitting the window is a sign of death – every time it happens
my grandmother gasps from the other room and looks at the spot where she slept

He is sitting – watching the coming winter – looking at the spot the birdfeeder was
He is talking about throwing seed out into the grass – about squirrels chipmunks robins sparrows blue jays rabbits
He is her father was her father is her father was her is her was is


It                        sounds        like
                        this

The phone rings and you answer it it is February
She has been sick for 4 years has it been 4 years?
At Christmas she was sleeping in front of the tree
She smiled drugged out of her mind and talked
about how she was tired how she was tired how she was

It                        sounds        like
                        this

You answer you know before you answer but
you answer because what else can you do this
is not something you can deny entry to

It                        sounds            like
                        this

Outside the window is grey and blowing and cold
There is an old man pushing a shopping cart he is
moving shuffling taking a step a minute
He is looking at the next intersection the intersection
is the current goal the only thing he needs is that corner
until he needs the next

It                        sounds            like
                        this

Michael your aunt died this morning we were all here we were with her we held her hand she wasn’t in pain she went peacefully she isn’t suffering anymore she is gone she is her funeral is ___ can you come home? Do I need to buy you a ticket? Are you ok? Can you get off work?

How’s the weather there?


Valentine’s Day is a soft rain – always and not
Not sad rain no no no it is quiet cleansing rain

I sit in front of a weeping cherry tree and feel no irony in this


At the funeral I cut my finger on the urn
(I am careful to not use the pronoun ‘her’ here it is tenuous and slippery in my mouth like jasmine tea – you’ve never noticed the oily texture of jasmine tea? – well it’s there like the Taos hum – you’ve never heard of the Taos hum? – well I can’t help you there)

At the funeral – how’s the weather there?

It is cold but does not really rain I think it might sputter a bit but it collapses and becomes just another February day – my mother’s birthday – her sister’s funeral


A window that looks out onto two slender trees

Slender trees that have stood as long as I can remember

I can remember many things

Many things that I probably made up or have half wrong

Half wrong but there is progression inevitability stoppage