Death

I'm looking forward to dying.
I've been taking death classes;
It sounds like fun.
When I'm dead, I'll be the one in the projection booth.
When I'm dead, I'll be able to see from the other side of my eyes.
When I'm dead, I won't have to sleep; I'll throw away my alarm clock.
When I'm dead, I'll be myself again for the first time.
When I'm dead, I'll explode and drift lazily from the sky in a thousand embers.
When I'm dead, I'll have lunch with God and pick up the check.
When I'm dead, I'll paint pictures that paint themselves.
When I'm dead, I'll remember all those jokes.
When I'm dead, I'll have to comb galaxies out of my hair.
When I'm dead, I'll drink starshine and breathe fire.
When I'm dead, I'll melt like a pat of butter.
When I'm dead, I'll turn myself inside out like a sock.
When I'm dead, I'll finally tell the truth.

These death classes are held in my dreams.
I wake up and the lessons continue
In the pauses between words,
In swathes of sunlight slicing through trees,
In the playful thoughts of gardenias,
In the cobwebs that collect over curtain rods,
In the sizzle and pop of frantic molecules.

This big old Punch and Judy world of stainless steel, cheese, volcanoes, office buildings, light bulbs, magazines, boulders—
The whole thing starts to shimmer and dissolve if you squint your eyes or cock your head to one side.
The picture starts to flicker and jump and the sound gets all warbly
And way down there in the corner you see
Your own face grinning back at you.

David Aronson