It Is An Old Dream

(December, 2010)

It is an old dream.
The Angel of Mercy sees fit to take me in my sleep
before I sink any further
and have to scrub the bottom clean with my heart-rags.

Anyway, I die.

Nobody much attends the funeral.
It is just my mother and some strange preacher
who has never known me
intoning words about ashes and dust.
Even my own brother can not make it.
He is sure I would understand,
but I don’t.
I don’t have to.
That part is over now.

They put me in a useless steel box.
They bury me despite the fact that I have often asked
never to be buried.
They make me take up space I don’t need and
they plant a big, cement marker over me for nobody to visit.
They spell my middle name wrong.
They leave me down there,

I wake up.
Despite the autopsy and the enormous, stitched Y
cutting a swath through most of me,
I wake up.

I don’t scream.

At least here it is quiet.
There is no one around to please
or displease.
No one to measure up to
or to be forsaken by.

I am nothing, now.
Finally and truly nothing.

It is such a relief.


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