Deadsong

             I.

I will die in a gasping panic

with plastic in my windpipe.

            II.

I will die in a rat-king

of shrapnel and rubber,

piecemeal by the interstate.

(It will be my fault –

I do get moony.)

            III.

I will die trying to fix

a household appliance

I do not understand.

            IV.

I will die the way my father

says I will: trying to pet some

wild and cornered creature.

            V.

I will die the way my mother

says I will: famous and ancient,

painless in my sleep.

            VI.

I will die upon the hatchet

of a charismatic maniac.

(I am always inviting

vampires inside.)

            VII.

I will die from a benzo overdose,

which I’m told is uncommon.

(Cessation is worse.)

            VIII.

I will die concussed and

bloody on the halfpipe.

(I am too old to ollie but

the urge is only growing.)

            IX.

I will die in the desert,

molting like a cicada.

(I will not remember

how I got there. I will

try to drink the sand.)

            X.

I will die when the mole I’m told

to monitor goes melanoma.

(I am building a guest

room for the cancer.)

            XI.

I will die early in the fracas

when the Trumpists come blasting.

(I’m a partisan, to be sure,

but my body is soft

and flinching.)

            XII.

I will die, uninsured,

of some curable malady.

(Debt is a splintering pillory.

A lifetime of little deaths.)

            XIII.

I will die the way that men do,

never having apologized,

barnacled with secrets.

            XIV.

I will die of shame

at a cocktail party.

(My solar plexus tells

me this is possible.)

            XV.

I will die at sea,

reefing the mainsail

to balance the tempest.

I will die when

Leviathan rises

from the wet,

a shadow on shadows,

and asks me her

unanswerable question.

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