Death

Maybe it will come to you when
you’re in the grocery store, in line,
thumbnails pressing the hard red
plastic of the cart handle.
Your metaphorical kid wants candy
and you say no while reviewing
the mounds of cans, boxes, and bags
you have accrued.
Your kid wants candy again
And this time you nod and smile.
It’s compassionate to give the panting deer
a mouthful of pond water before you shoot.
A hunched grandmother ahead places coins
into Stacy’s cupped hand.
Stacy is the name of the cashier
and Stacy is the Angel of Death.
You’re next in line.

Maybe it will come to you when
you go to bed with minor stomach pain
and your last thought before the darkness is
“a little undercooked fish never killed anyone,”
but actually undercooked fish has killed a lot of people
and actually it kills you.
But just before your spirit slips out, you dream.
You see yourself kneeling
on a grassy school playground.
You have a halo, and so does the other kid,
and you are warm and sleepy-
you’ve never been sleepy in a dream before-
and you’re both looking for four-leaf clovers.
It gets to the part in the dream
when the red-headed kid reaches toward you.
He’s about to open his mouth. It’s a climax-
Then from the outside comes a slammed door,
the urge to urinate, an erupting throat.
You’re nearly awake
but you don’t wake up because you die.

Maybe it will come to you when
a red sunset spreads itself across the horizon.
You walk beyond your master-planned subdivision
into a mess of nature. You squint. You listen.
You’re just about to hear the cloudmen speak
when you look down and see
yourself standing on train tracks.
For metaphysical reasons
you don’t hear the whistle
and you don’t feel the rumble
and you’re looking the wrong way.
The cloudmen guide your head into a turn
to see the oncoming train,
to look and consider.
There’s plenty of time to leave
but the calm train gets closer.
You stand still.
You are talking with the cloudmen.
They tell you to spread your arms across, horizontally
and you do and then
wham! you’re dead.