Friday, January 28, 2011


“Thank you for coming,” she said.

Pillow-huddled, curled toward her own imaginings,

The bones held loose in panting flesh,

She lay upon the self-breathing bed.

This bed of life could rise and fall,

With one sure touch, with pure and practical intention,

Prepared as it was, to hold lightly

The shrivelled soul that sought sanctuary.

Sounds of breath and sounds of bed,

Drew patterned hopes in steady weaving

And eyelids closed in weary fall

Upon the days, the dreams, and visitors.

How many years had drifted past

Upon this stark white cushioning?

No answer, for she had none, and neither did she know

If she lay upon reward, or punishment.

If truth be known, and it rarely is,

The answer must embrace both offerings,

For in the suffering lay peace,

And in the sanctuary, brewed torment.

But such things had all become as one

Through years of curled imaginings,

And now she simply lay and breathed …

In what was life’s last offering.


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