DEATH Poem: Distance Between, by Chesley Walsh

Letting go,
As if it’s just release.
You’ll have to
Peel it off my skin
Scrape out
my insides.
I mean
it’s probably cellular,
By now,
epigenetic.

Numbers I didn’t understand
Mercurial memory
The nested fear springing up
Unexpectedly

I resent my own familiarity
With hospital bureaucracy
The voice to take
With a nurse or doctor
technician or administrator.

And the window I finally cracked open
Slammed shut
And there i am
ill-made
To make it through
What they call simple
Natural
Simple
“A natural birth”
Not ravaging
Brutal
A wrecking chaos
Instead they call you ill-made
They risk stratify
They look at you sadly
“Poor guy” they say
To the sound-image

Author: poetryfest

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