DEATH Poem: Clippings, by Camille Moreau

I didn’t notice
the sloped hardwood
of his apartment. It was so gradual
that I couldn’t tell when he started rolling.

Magic microphone that crackles distant goodbyes, please
let me through. All I can hear is the urgency, that finger-ripping
force of time, yanking forward with unexpected aggressivity when I try to reign it in.

What does it matter if it wasn’t covid?
I couldn’t see him.
Neither one of us could move, and that didn’t even bring us closer.

At the bottom of my bag
I still have the bits
of newspaper that he would
cut out and distribute;
today they are detritus,
decaying leaves that I
let rot. I want to
to fill his casket
with these soul-preserving
paper pieces
tomake the bed
softer on his back,
but I’m told
he opted for cremation,
and his clippings
will burn with him

Author: poetryfest

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