Death is an allergen, a foment,
a farce. Death is a handler
of wild turkeys and other animals
with grotesque physiognomy,
like baboons. Death hates it
when the mariachi band comes
to town—death is the wet fish
that stands on the sidelines,
arms crossed, while even
the village fool is dancing.
Vanilla custard. Hot dogs.
These are among death’s
favorite foods, because
contrary to popular opinion,
death eats, though not much,
and not with any pleasure.
Death is not to be confused
with swooning or injury,
even though both brush
his sleeve. Can’t you
just imagine it: death
sipping a daiquiri
underneath a beach
umbrella, scowl
affixed, while the rest
of the world frolics
and bathes? Death
is the patternless pattern,
the soundless howl,
the irritant that can’t
be soothed, or healed.
You live many times,
but you only die once.
This is death’s glory,
the spirit of the age.