The End of the World As We Know It

I can't possibly post a poem for every time Merrick discovers one more angle into death. Two weeks before his 5th birthday, and his inevitable demise has settled across his shoulders, sits at our kitchen table, sleeps in his bed.

Last night, he poured himself into my lap: "Mama, when you die do you still think?"

Me: "Yes, you still think. I think. But in a way that's absolutely different than now. A hard to imagine way. Who 'you' will be is different too."

Merrick: "The thinking is important. I like my thinking. It's the best thing, and I'll miss it the most when I die."

Me too, sweetie.


Suppose Death Comes Like This

Suppose it is the sound of a window opening
the scrape of wood against wood and the
weight dropping along the groove in the sash,
glass rattling in the frame? Or suppose
it is a man, coughing in the other room,
the rasp of is throat sawing through
the thin wall, there, just above the mirror?
Or suppose it is a telephone ringing
from the house next door, and the blur
of bird wings crosses silently through it?
Or an engine overhead, riding unevenly
in thick clouds, a steady hum coming on
so gradually? Suupose you fail to hear it?
Suppose it is as unportentous as that?

Joyce Sutphen (again!)
Straight Out of View
Holy Cow! Press, 2001