June 28, 2012

That, finally, is all it means to be alive: to be able to die

-J.M. Coetzee

In Preparation for a Death

 

So this is the labor:

scooping up the dry

bodies of flies

from beneath the meditation mats,

watching the dark

cluster in the dust pan,

I’m thinking about the time

I barfed on a subway platform.

It was very late, and I

imagined the person

who would take care of my vomit

before the morning commute. She

wore orange pants. Her fingernails

were clean. Her hands were very strong.

I wiped my mouth and got on the train.

In this way we are all the same.