Sometimes There Is No Consolation

I sit quietly next to death.

So quietly, I can hear her whisper.

And I can tell that I’m trying

To feel her in my body.

Not trying to be her,

Just stepping into her dressing gown,

Momentarily.

To brush up against the part of

Her that I am longing to know.

Next to death, I’m learning

From a slowness that’s disarming.

My shallow heartbeat,

Tired and electrified.

I feel a rooted sureness around me.

Dampened soil, tangled depths.

And I feel the closest I’ve ever been,

To witches, alchemists, lovers,

And rats.

Keeping company of the night.

When I look up,

There’s a plastic film –

The surface of things.

The frantic parroting around,

Comical in its seriousness.

And for a second, it clouds my eyes.

Burlesque, masquerading as reality.

And it confuses this feeling,

Gently flickering in my belly.

This light that started, ever so small,

But that keeps on smiling.

Smiling with the gumption of a baby girl

Who just realized she has toes.

And I can feel,

In the clarity of darkness,

In my peacefulness,

That I am not afraid.

And with slow and labored breathe,

I slip into her.

Death, my sister.

And I have never felt more alive.

Because my joy,

Delicious in the fullness of her quiet room,

Is released.

Free to move about,

Or without doing anything

At all.

And I smile thinking how at funerals

Condolences are whispered

To all those left behind.

Because from this buried classroom,

Where fears and shame have gone to die.

I see notes passed between worlds.

And nothing has ever felt more true.

Sometimes there is no consolation,

When all that’s left is freedom.