Brief

Drowning itself is quick and silent.
If I had to, I’d liken it
to a prayer.
Sweet Ophelia knows.
The brevity of her own
tempered
inhalations
keeping pace with the slowing of her
cells, the cooling of her blood.

Hardly epic.
Factual.
“Dear God, I’m drowning.”
punctuated by
celebrated by
gasps.

Tragic as
the absence of her name
once buried.

Code Switching

Automaton*
I do not need you to take care of me.
That is what my organs are for.
My heart beats, unprompted
sometimes, even, flipping upon itself.
How fortunate,

how

marvelous
I am to have such acrobatic innards.


Automaton(s)
Alive.
Like that time you took me to dinner
and laughed at my unease, at my
greenness. I’m certain
later
at the eagerness with which I threw it
all on the fire.

My, “Can I have one?”
the filling of two
quite
virgin lungs (I still
can’t catch my breath).