Death Lessons

For my grandmother

 

Death doesn’t move.

Everlasting in its immobility

modern colossus mocking us,

the only inevitable thing

worth believing.

 

We are a blink, a joke without a punchline

shouted into the surf,

a mouthful of salt water

our only reward.

 

The most uncomfortable part

of a hospital bed

is standing next to it.

I want to die at home.

Hot soup after shoveling snow

and dying under a familiar roof

are probably the only comforts

you can really count on.

 

Some batteries aren’t rechargable.

Soap operas go on forever,

with new actors

playing old characters.

I wish life could be like this,

but commercial breaks are murder.

The series gets renewed

but the actors all get fired.

We watch reruns

and wonder what happened

to that guy.

 

Death is a lay off.

It’s the world downsizing,

how it says

like a broken camera,

you need to focus better

on the central subject.

 

Death is a crappy teacher

who hands you a textbook

and a syllabus

and says

you’ll figure it out on your own.

 

Death is the math of relativity

instructing you

on how stark moments become

when they come with time limit,

 

Death is  the fingertip

pinprick at sunset

that makes dusk orange flare vivid.