Glenn Johnson’s most recent poem to appear here was “How long before we, us, our, ours, ends?” (September 2016)
Death is a Blank Page
By Glenn Johnson
A talk about writing.
I mouthed:
Not since death, wife.
Heard:
Make a note.
Surely start of a story.
I fell in silence.
Crashed onto shingles of Oxycodone.
Tourniquets wrenched blood from drywall.
Sutures ripped through cedar ceilings.
Surgery’s plasma tears gushed
flooded
dumped tiny tennis shoes into the street.
A shroud collapsed on our marriage.
Vigilant
One hand rubbed her frosted toes.
other flailed against relentless
stalking shadows
looters of all that was good.
Death . . . distance lost . . . threshold crossed.
Alone
Still shrouded
Dazed
Trembling
Exhausted
Time long lost in a measureless night.
Suddenly
Startled
Explosions
Through tattered linen
Fireworks sparkling and rude.
Independence Day
What is celebration when dreams are death masks and urns of ashes?
What a painful meditation–yet the spacing of your poem gives the piece (and us) room to breathe.
Devon
Thank you for your comment and recognition that it was a “meditation” that was “painful.” Written about 3 years from the passing of my wife of 35 years. Definitely falls in the category of cathartic writing. Again, thanks.