Poem: Dying Upright | Poetry | Hudson Valley | Chronogram Magazine

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Poem: Dying Upright

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When the moon is severed
And the world falls away
Until the falling feels like flying,
What is there left to do?
Or put another way,
What do we do with our hands
While our wings do all the work?

When we wade out to sea
Looking to test our god-given gills,
And the swells carry us out beyond breathing altogether,
Who do we thank?
Or put another way,
How do we receive the gift of air
Without filling our lungs with water?

The dead do not ask questions,
They do not negotiate with the living.
So too, the dying ready themselves
For the loss of memory and desire.
Or put another way,
How do we die upright
Full of the sorrow that is joy?





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