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Editor's
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Two
Poems
by
Meg Eden
The
Hour of Death
On
the kitchen counter, a spider curls its legs up
as
if ready to enter a long deep sleep,
but
we know he is really dying.
His
movements are spasmed and slow,
and
his already-small body shrinks
into
something even smaller,
as
if to acknowledge that He must increase
and
we must decrease in the hands
of
the One who Made Us.
Unlike
us, the spider wears
immortality with
acceptance, folding in
the
way artists deconstruct their exhibits,
and
store them for a later time. Only we
would
be so bold to say that the spider
will
never return, but there remains
a
God-part in us. We are sour
with
sin. What can we know about
what
has yet to come?
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They
would have been married.(photo prompt)
Now,
when I look at dead men, I can’t help but wonder
which
lonely girl was waiting for him, if he betrayed her
with
his body, or if he too believed she was the only one
who
could ever tolerate and be tolerated by him,
that
love lasts longer than pressed bodies—
but
how can I know of his sincerity? even the living
can’t
discern these truths.
The
back says his name, but not hers,
and
it’s these kind of pictures that make me wonder
if
I should get married now, at 21, because who knows
what
might happen to him, what might happen to me,
if
life is so fragile and despises our desires,
and
wouldn’t it be better for us to be happy
at
least in short if time gave us no opportunity
for
withdrawals?
Even
as a girl I dreamed
of
my tombstone with the ravens
flying
over my dirt-body.
These
are the dreams I had before
my
birthday parties, wondering
if
this would be the last one I’d have.
Mom
asked me if there were vultures
with
polka dot pants and I laughed
but
knew we were dodging the issue.
It
makes me wonder if I was built
like
early apoptosis, if internal worries
are
driven by a greater need—
It’s
tragic for the young to die but not
for
the old, as if we expect that people
have
to pack up their bags at some point.
But
if all of us must die,
Will
my story be told through pictures?
Or
will someone find these poems
in
the one dollar bin of an antique store?
Or
perhaps, in some more terrifying a place.
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