sting

all the movies
all the shows
the books
the songs
the photos
the grainy amateurish video
imagining for us
in morbid
hyperclinical
detail
in colors
and with vocabulary
we did not previously possess
all these means
—some well-meaning—
missed their ends
failed, cruelly
to desensitize us
to death
they could not sooth
our mad preoccupation
with readying ourselves
for the inevitable:
that as surely as our cells divide
they will conquer us
and be conquered
we are perishable products
with expiration dates
unknown to us
in response to this
terrible and plain fact
we chose the path of fear
and it did not lengthen our life
just darkened it

we all die of broken hearts
must we be frightened as well?

we decided
death is tragedy
always and ever
we railed against our common fate
we cursed this sickly skin
we wailed at this inequity
we protested our sentence
we appealed, over and again
at the root of our anguish
a premise:
life is precious
beautiful
worth saving
ergo
the antithesis
death
is a curse
a penalty
to be hated
and feared
and if not avoided
at least deadened

all creation groans
and we think it is for us

we set to studying
the science of demise
poring over the methods
describing
what happens to every cell
when deprived of oxygen
or blood
or its connection to the body
when crushed, severed, smothered
blown up, shattered, punctured
drowned, burned, consumed
hoping that somehow
through our vast body
of knowledge
we would also learn
to avoid all the attendant pain
to manage our terror
to get past it all
to change our course
to defy fate itself
but this corpus of facts
will outlast its compilers
and all we learned
is why we are scared

are we powerless to
deconstruct
this paradigm of perishing?
can we not redefine
what it means to die
and better find
a way to live?
is it not redundant
to fear terror?
is it not tragic
to live consumed by death?
do we not deny ourselves
the sweetness
richness
complexities
of every flavor
with this relentless
bitter
taste on our tongues?
is it not a grandiose
perilous waste
to strive to save
what we simply
cannot
we beat the ground
demanding
to go back
to the Garden
while shoots of life
spring under our feet
and the buds of new blooms
are poised to explode
with infinite praise
of the act—and Director—
of Creation

each breath is a gift
a small wisp of holy wind
never to be captured
ever to be savored
immortality
flowing
through morbid limbs
breathe deeply
breathe fully
waste no breath
we live
so we die
so we live
the mystery
—thank God—
does not depend
on us getting it
we’ve got it already
etched in our DNA
a mystery with a punchline
the sting is gone
no sense holding on
better to let go
and let it go

June 2007