“Thank you for coming,” she said.
Pillow-huddled, curled
toward her own imaginings,
the bones held loose
in panting flesh,
she lay upon the
self-breathing bed.
This bed of life could
rise and fall,
with one sure touch,
with pure and practical intention,
prepared as it was, to
hold lightly
the shrivelled soul
that sought sanctuary.
Sounds of breath and
sounds of bed,
drew patterned hopes
in steady weaving
and eyelids closed in
weary fall
upon the days, the
dreams, and visitors.
How many years had
drifted past
upon this stark white
cushioning?
No answer, for she had
none, and neither did she know
if she lay upon
reward, or punishment.
If truth be known, and
it rarely is,
the answer must
embrace both offerings,
for in the suffering
lay peace,
and in the sanctuary,
brewed torment.
But such things had
all become as one
through years of woven thoughts and words,
and now she simply lay
and breathed …
in what was life’s
last offering.
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