Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash
I will not die
last Wednesday night
on the phone
you said
I want my kids
to know you
as you leaned toward
the darkened future.
I tell you my son,
and I mean it so–
do not worry
for I,
I will not die.
most certainly
this suitcase
of flesh and bone
that I now travel in
will someday–
perhaps sooner than later–
cease,
it’s framework battered,
cracked, and broken
but me,
the I of me–
I, I will not die.
my DNA
that secret code of my biology
is safe inside you.
as long as you live,
I will not die.
my physiology–
my eyebrows
my tilted smile
my cheekbones
these are written all over your face.
the fibrous threads
tying together
the worldly things
that I love–
the ocean,
the stars,
the first morning light
these strands
are woven in your heart
my words–
some harsh
some bright
tumble easily from your mouth
even now, so soon
I hear me in you.
do not be afraid my son
I will always be–
here and there
now and then
I, I will not die.
later–
I will guide your hand
as you stir the pot.
my eyes, through yours
will glimpse the bluebird on the branch.
I’ll smell the salted ocean’s breath
each time you inhale.
and laugh aloud with you
at nature’s wondrous beauty.
and embrace your loves
each time you hold them tight.
I am not going anywhere
my son–
for I,
through you,
I will not,
I cannot,
die.
Wednesday
on Wednesday
I notice
a black-eyed Susan
deep in the woods
alone
among the thorny shrubs.
calendar
I keep believing
I am only just turning over
to the Wednesday
of my life
half-way to something
still discovering
and uncovering
the days ahead.
if only believing
made this so.
by my mother’s calendar
I’m at 6 p.m. on Friday
a big night out left
then Saturday chores
and Sunday rest.