|Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead)|
Mesilla Park, New Mexico 2012
She thought she was dead. Not a zombie
like those portrayed, but like a book unread,
yearning for his eyes to see her inside,
digest her story, caress, curl her spine,
turn her pages until the end, when
she'd dwell in his mind.
Dead alone in the night, afraid of monsters sucking
her light, their weight burying her under blame
for marriage that died, for her children -
mouths open wide, eyes watching to see how on earth
one dies in motion, doing, doing as if alive.
Taking the hood off his head, death smiles then digs. He stole her son. Death's shovel creates an agonizing space in her heart. "Your grave," he says. She jumps in but her hatred emits thick gunk
until a late age when death dies within her.
Empty, there's room for new life.
She sits quietly sipping memory tea talking to Life. "I'm so glad you followed my living deaths and didn't kill me. Thank you," she says.
"You're welcome," Life says. "But don't you know?
Death is the other side of my face. We're always.
together. You saw Death then turned my head and confronted Life.
She lays still as Life gradually twists
its face sharing a smile with death.
(Submitted to Poets United and Dverse Poets.)