I thought of the poet who had entered hospice,
the way his mouth had finished its long job.
His body parts tying things up. I sensed that the
poet had died that night. All the writers’
words became hours. Everything they talked of,
I no longer cared about. Everything I had seen
in my life turned to wood. Without softness,
I became so lost that I knocked on the wooden
moon and my dead father answered. I asked him
why he wasn’t in my heart. He handed me a
small cloth to wet my eyes for seeing in the fires.
Another to cover my mouth. He hung a spyglass
around my neck, said nothing, detached my
sadness, held onto it like a briefcase. He turned
me around and sent me back down. When I
returned, the mirrors were wood too. Without
the mirrors, all the writers had scattered. When I
stood in front of the mirror, I saw nothing but
wood too. I had seen death up close twice, but I
hated that I was still no better than anyone else.