She’s Dead and Is

Tragedy rarely gives a heads-up

which is why it’s not so scary to run with scissors, 

it’s getting too near the edge that equals dread.

and she, like a lemming magnetized to cliffs,

loving that tenuous moment 

encouraged stillness to encounter chance.

She confessed

“it brings me closer to the sublime

and resolves most mysteries”. 

As proof she shared that

“elephants speak below the hearing of humans”

and swears

they told her that the universe pivots 

on dual confessions - 

• one confirms that love is blind,
• another always says yes to letting your light go out.

She mutters and repeats and mutters

these invocations like a monk intent on sainthood 

with a whispered benediction 

“to just feel it.” 

“To be like purloined moonlight giving texture to the dark.”

She offers thanks and gives instruction

saying an ending must have the strategy

to nod like you’re in the know

with what the voices of angels intone

as they, like elephants, vocalize low.

She waits 

for memories and 

feelings and

questions to come,

staying chaste

like acolytes on Sunday morning cruising the aisles, 

spreading incense to mask the stink of death,

an aromatic diversion inviting faith,

the kind that comes without

guarantee of reward.

Hers was a life that struggled 

to live the lessons learned

that love has no human face

and hers is that of a stranger.

So now no more attempts to flee

that tenuous moment 

when stillness embraces chance 

and romance accommodates apocalypse.

She’s dead and is still remembered

like a thousand Roman years 

of empire in decline

love can imitate Byzantium.

—Ed Sanctious