Photo by Jahanzeb Ahsan
Talking About Death–Again
D. Dina Friedman
Today, cold rain, killing what’s left
of the earth’s resolve–or mine.
Typical funeral trope, complete
with black umbrellas. All this talk
about death, like a worn-out dish towel
already squeezed to the max.
Sometimes, I like to compare being gone
to how I think about home
when I’m on vacation, not caring
if the sidewalk’s been shoveled;
or focus on the anticipated perks
that endless warm light. Better
than euphemisms like “kicked the bucket,”
“passed on”–to where? To what?
Is there a panoramic view? Some beautiful goddess
with soft hands? Or is it just cold, like the rain,
dark and earthy–all that dirt.
D. Dina Friedman
Today, cold rain, killing what’s left
of the earth’s resolve–or mine.
Typical funeral trope, complete
with black umbrellas. All this talk
about death, like a worn-out dish towel
already squeezed to the max.
Sometimes, I like to compare being gone
to how I think about home
when I’m on vacation, not caring
if the sidewalk’s been shoveled;
or focus on the anticipated perks
that endless warm light. Better
than euphemisms like “kicked the bucket,”
“passed on”–to where? To what?
Is there a panoramic view? Some beautiful goddess
with soft hands? Or is it just cold, like the rain,
dark and earthy–all that dirt.