I don’t remember
becoming obsessed
with the passage of time
personifying Death’s scythe
like Donne or Spenser
even my students
are overwhelmed with Death
His black hood draped
over them, an invisibility cloak
wearing at the edges
----
Traveling down a mountain road
there is a shrine: flowers,
pictures, a blue basketball
like one won at a fair.
The ball rolls down
sticks in a grate at the bottom.
Driving up, after work
the ball is replaced
at the spot
where local high school student
was thrown from his vehicle.
----
When
does Death’s reality
hit? Maybe when
His icy fingers slide,
lace themselves
in yours or mine.
I don’t cry at funerals,
He has already
gripped my heart
splintered it
with His breath.
Is there a way
to look at Him
without longing for Him
to choose you?
----
My heartbeat clicks,
a metronome moving
with the hands of the clock
circling nearer nearer
Can you turn off sound
for a clock on the wall?
One must
shut it off completely
tear out the batteries
snap the springs.
How pleasant it would be
to exist without
that sound.
----
Dickinson heard a fly buzz.
I hear tires screech
glass shatter
horn blare through smoke
Dryads welcome me
between their leaves
sing with the ash
of another day done.
Julianna May is a poet based in Northeastern Pennsylvania, a graduate of Wilkes University's M.A. in Creative Writing, and a high school English teacher. She has been published in Nightingale and Sparrow magazine and Crepe & Penn. Find her on twitter: @JuliannaMay1216
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