< Volume II: Issue 1 >
Death and Me
by Hugh Lemma
I see Death everyday
leaning on an ash tree outside my window,
smoking a cigarette.
He never returns my glance,
but he knows I see him
and that's enough.
Occasionally,
he makes an example of someone I know,
and afterward
I suspect that he snickers at my grief
and despises my belated intercession.
But I know he delights in the pure terror
of his randomness.
I wish I could taunt him in kind,
O death, where is thy sting?
O grave, where is thy victory?
but I am weak with preoccupation-
there are fears to assuage,
quirks and hiccups and virgin aches of entropy to justify,
degrees to settle for..
so I listen instead
for a heartbeat
when I am alone,
just to know.
And he remains,
leaning there,
knowing I see him,
checking his watch
and blowing smoke.
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