{In Which I Write of My Own Death}

Today I borrowed books from a friend:
illustrated children’s books about the brain and books about teaching
students to listen to the —
well, the small voice in their heads.

I read them on the way home and
as we barreled down the hill in our long bus,
I was thinking:
What if I were to die today?

I believe that I ought to be comfortable with this idea, this death.
After all, who knows what my purpose might be,
surely not I.

I know people hope we cry when they die.
I only hope those I know are not quite right,
not quite comfortable with the immediacy, the reality.

I was thinking what a glorious mess that would be:
bodies, and glass, and me —
books about brains surrounding
my bloodied head like a pillow, or a crown.

Really, I only hope you find this poem, written in my notebook —
the last word, a mere scrawl,
the page smeared with my very last breath.

{On The Beach}

The ocean is big, and
We are small.
Insignificant, but here
Laughing for the joy of being alive,
For breath, for this:
The sky and its cotton candy pink,
The sun, and only God knows all the
Crabs, fish, and other small lives.
We mix like sand, rub and age,
Us and the salty creatures I don’t know.
As my friends and I run along the shore,
Our feet denting the wet sand,
Water splashing up our legs,
Light bounces off the sea,
The clams fulfill their purpose
And we keep running.