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A Reminder

ISSUE:  Winter 1993
In the never—sleep of dying
I imagine death a needle
threading itself in and out
of the seam between land and sky
that is one moment seen
on the horizon—concrete as a tree
or a boulder—and then is gone.
It is that fast,
that nondescript.
You come to see the sheet
that covers me rise and fall,
thinking the morphine so thick
in my veins that I am half-petrified:
you need to believe this. It’s easier
to watch a person die if you think
he is not watching you live.
For you, death is a spot in the sky
that catches your eye and slips
its knot before you can name it.
In some other set of circumstances
it will retie its loose ends
around your finger to remind you
of something you thought you’d never forget.
Death is for the living—
the white sheet lifting, barely
falling, and me very quiet.


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Jim Blakesley's picture
Jim Blakesley · 6 years ago

Since I have experienced the spectacular grit of a daughter plagued Long by a serious illness and observed first hand myriad folks who do not get it, I appreciate the beauty of M. Wrybeck’s poems.  This poem reminds me of the American Indian legend of the Warrior who bends the dome of sky to go beyond the horizon in search of his wife and the water of life that wandered off with her.  I wanted this 5 star touching poem and the others cited to have a tip-of-the-hat comment by a stranger and admirer, one appreciative of M. Wrybeck’s considerable insights and gifts, not, I suppose for people in a hurry.


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