there’s a rush, a wash
and I’m freefalling
can’t hold on to thoughts
not supposed to
what do I grab?
nothing
to do
don’t think this or
don’t think that
too much landing
on my mat
let it go, the next right thing
slipstream
could be lethal
how does it end
let alone begin
Photo: Claire Doble
sometimes think I’m going to die
I mean, of course
I am going to die
but that’s nebulous and
post-menopause
post-cancer, post-covid, post-relapse, post-deathofparents, post-divorce
post-pleasenothingawfulwiththekids
post-life
I’ll die
and
it’s ok
because
I will have done it all by then
right?
But sometimes
there’s a fizz in my chest
and I think
what if I’m dying now
I mean, of course
I am
Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash
It chimes me back
to a string of tinkles
beside my bedroom window
brass-notched with
mouse-foot marks
their tongues of brass
rough and rarely
put out for noon
but thanks Emily
for that memory
while She thought
the hat was stripey
it was all-black
soft and so long
hung with a bell
a velvet isosceles
still ringing in
half-forgotten song
Photo by Arturo Rey on Unsplash
clairevetica 