Poems written for ME -- Part I, most recent

Her Death from my 40s
written March 25, 2008

In my twenties, I fell for a cartoon version of death drawn by Gaiman;
ankh around her thin pale neck, like a contemporary Egyptian queen,
and really cool solid black hair crossing her thickly lined eyes.
So I put sterling ankhs in my own ears, let my bangs grow
over my pupils, and swallowed a bottle full of assorted poisons to meet her.

But my body refused.

Now I sit with my 87 year old kindred woman and study
the real thing appearing before me. While different,
she has the same charisma as her hip sister: dusty
white hair, thin as a silk thread curtains, falls effortlessly
into this woman’s startling blue eyes.

I have had years to prepare for this visit, yet
mind’s clarity sinks into the cloudy ocean of dementia,
I remember both what I loved and regretted:
the loss and relief
the clenching and letting go.