by Bodwyn Wook
It is all well & good to ‘want’ others to live…right up TO the point of coercion, even.
But in Love, my poesis altogether might be, well, just a tad different say than ‘yours’, on learning that Death even now is walking about IN my house.
(As He indeed is in all of ours as we sit & read & fume & write…
(He lifting impolitely & looking under things on the tables & shelves, and in the drawers rummaging desultorily with tapered gloved finger-ends & wiping rather rudely along the top of the wainscotting for dust.)
So with such a guest niggling & shifting from leg to the other & needing to pee & too polite to ask, to pack it up & clear off early might in Truth be my most ‘precious’ act.
For it could be, too, to make of Suicide after all a surprisingly affectionate social (!) act!
And all the more so in Love, when also I am minded to see clearly that from inside of me I am taking the living remembered seemingnesses of you all with me right out of this hideously beautiful, horrible, finally unworkable World.
Death then becomes, perhaps, to take wing on that last breath that is rising, rising even now from everyone on Earth & always has been so constantly around us all & rises now in me.
And, so, in the beginning & in the end of Time & in agreeing, me too, finally with Death & giving glad wing to Him, why ever, ever stall around?
[all rights revert to holders
[20 July 2014]