Emma Zozzaro

 

Death

Is my distant admirer

It writes me flowery letters

Full of love and sweet-talk

And thin, curling, pointed words

 

And in that mischievous way It has

Sends them in the form of

Small birds’ pretty voices

Bright and clear as the sound of breaking glass

Cutting through my sleep in the morning

 

And in profuse light thick and warm and alive as blood

Flooding in to suffocate my dreams and

Opening my eyes like a new rose

It sends them as charming smells

That bloom in my path

 

And cause me to draw in an especially

Full breath

Then emptying my lungs

So I can fill them again

Death says funny things

 

And strangers laugh until the

Current of joy carries my smile along with it

It sends me little bits of green along my walks

Reminding me always of It’s absence and longing

For the day we can be together

 

And It can finally be comforted by my soft, cold embrace