William Shakespeare: Sonnets 73 & 74
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
Toi Derricotte: Not Forgotten
I love the way the black ants use their dead.
They carry them off like warriors on their steel
backs.
Barbara Crooker: Treadmill
We lift weights. We
feel great. We
do yoga. We
eat granola.
Laurence Musgrove: Healing
Have you ever thought
that you weren’t healing
as fast as you thought
you should
Kathryn Levy: Three Poems
The geese are calling—this is
time to depart. They gather and sink and
soar toward somewhere.
Tony Gloeggler: Anyway
After we dropped dirt
on my father’s coffin
the long line of cars
drove back to the house.
James Crews: Finding my Mother
The day you passed away, I stumbled
along icy sidewalks, searching for any
sign of you
Al Maginnes: The Body’s Cartographer
I’ve been lucky enough to steer clear of pain that squats
like the friend you no longer like but can’t evict
from your couch because he’s out of work, but able
to be drunk every day you walk in the door.
Elizabeth Romero: O’Brien’s Funeral Parlor
The family, humble and resigned as a canvas jacket:
Their faces full of a still, impassive sorrow
Helene Johnson: Invocation
Let me be buried in the rainIn a deep, dripping wood,Under the warm wet breast of EarthWhere once a gnarled tree stood.And paint a picture on my tombWith dirt and … Continue reading
Martha Silano: I’m Not So Good at Corpse Pose
We’ve just woken from the dead, having been in deep rest,
when she rouses us with a clanging bell
Gary Fincke: Scattering
From six to ten pounds, our cremains
Will weigh, the visible fragments
White or gray, the largest pieces
Ground to sand-size for discretion
And the ease of our scattering.
Rachel Hadas: Ghost Guest
I sometimes think I recognize the face
of my own death. Knowing it is nearer
makes me feel it ought to be familiar,
a neutral guest I’ve seen somewhere before.
Arlene Weiner: December Vigil
I think of Jeff and Mike, who won’t need
next year’s calendars, Mike saying
These are my last poems. Tomorrow
is not promised, some people say.
