Guiding Red

I thought of the poet who had entered hospice,

the way his mouth had finished its long job.

His body parts tying things up. I sensed that the

poet had died that night. All the writers’

words became hours. Everything they talked of,

I no longer cared about. Everything I had seen

in my life turned to wood. Without softness,

I became so lost that I knocked on the wooden

moon and my dead father answered. I asked him

why he wasn’t in my heart. He handed me a

small cloth to wet my eyes for seeing in the fires.

Another to cover my mouth. He hung a spyglass

around my neck, said nothing, detached my

sadness, held onto it like a briefcase. He turned

me around and sent me back down. When I

returned, the mirrors were wood too. Without

the mirrors, all the writers had scattered. When I

stood in front of the mirror, I saw nothing but

wood too. I had seen death up close twice, but I

hated that I was still no better than anyone else.