[Here’s the next B.N. poem—please enjoy!]
A Little Like Death
In your love poem,
you are touching the woman
who will not roll over
because she is weeping.
Later you say:
Light, it is dark where I am standing,
Moon, the water is too still.
And it is bitter when
she leaves because
you could have wished her dead.
You are afraid that ghosts
keep to themselves.
I believe that they
are attracted to us, and shiny objects.
They take the shape of
birds and form consonants
in the sky, a language
of the hereafter.
It is Sunday afternoon
and I'm amazed
how the red carpet soaks up light—
How did we come to this?
Me loving
you, lying about an afterlife.
B.N.
© to the author 1983-2009
“A Little Like Death” previously appeared in The Memphis State Review