On That Day

It will be so much smaller than you thought.
No seas will part, no tempestuous maelstrom will consume, no sparking flames will engulf.

It will devour nothing and frighten no one.

It will be smaller than that.

The splinter coming free,
       the damp impression your socks leave above your ankles,
the part where the horns come in.

The serrations that edge a blade of grass,
       the horrible tenderness of a bruise,
and the enmeshing of feathers’ barbs
       because without it
       there would be no flight.

Like watching yourself take your first steps.
Like coming in from the rain.

It will be like this.
    Small, precise, and palpable.


bone mills, candy bars

I had always thought that when death came I would want my body cremated, reduced to between five and six pounds of chalky ash.

Now, though, I hope to be enrobed in chocolate.

I’ve always wanted to be someone’s crunchy, nougaty center.