Member Poem

Sway

I turn in circles, my daughter

balanced softly on the tops

of my feet. We’re dancing

to the slow, sad music I listen to

when I can’t focus on any one thing

and the only way to hurt less

is to hurt more first. I think

this is what dying is- swaying,

rocking gently from foot to foot,

arms out, twirling at the hand

of whatever will eventually twist you

into itself, hold you tight to its chest

and shift at the hips, a mouth

near your ear and a hand

on your waist, like dancing

only you’re not dancing,

you’re closing your eyes

and there’s no floor below you,

only space to fall, and there’s quiet,

so much quiet it’s a pleasure.

Never needing to hurt, never

having to feel life peal by

while you sprint to catch up.

No one’s breaking your heart,

and there’s no worry for the future,

no nagging past. It’s just a fist

closing around a flame,

a beat that slows in tempo

until all that’s left is echo,

and echo fades to black.