We tell our own stories, and listen to others’, to understand life and our place in it. We tell these stories so we won’t be alone.
I wish I could say I died once
but that’s not so.
Maybe I should confess
death found me alluring enough,
it returned for encores.
It could not bear to leave
with my taste still lingering
in its mouth. The way I gave over,
still thinking this was just courtship,
thinking I knew the dance.
Seventh time the seal.
I was promised. Death’s first dances
led me with skirts awhirl. Fourth, fifth
sixth, it dipped me low, then into
a tarantella of motion.
Death spun me away, drew me back.
Its cool fingertips my only anchor. Revelation
near, death paused its unmasking for one
final sip from my parted lips. A hard insistence
laid across its shoulder. Life was cutting in.