Talk about elephant in the room:
we’re all dying.
You and me
and the little lost soul
we pulled from the crawl space
on Easter Sunday — Risen!
Despite her nine lives, she will die.
She will die.
And you will die.
And I will die.
We talk about the peripheries,
whisper the horrors of loss
as anecdotes now —
the deathbed promise,
the oddity of coffins.
But that foul and painful
smell of lilies will linger
on you and on me into eternity.
The cat is spared such indignity,
never to be mourned on silken pillows
in Sunday’s finest.
Tell me we can laugh this way until the end, love,
I could not bear it any other way.
©2015, Jen Payne, #9 National Poetry Month
IMAGE: Skeleton, Vincent van Gogh