Examination At The Womb Door (That Little Death)
Death scratches at my door,
yet I can not fathom it,
so I am better than it.
I can see it with my crow-eyes
and it is not me, but another
worming in the grass, half-blind,
but not deaf.
It hears me as I call to it: That Death.
I scry a branch in the dim light of
outer space which damply revolves
around me and I grant it no mercy,
that little thing which stalks itself,
and cannot reach me,
cannot tell me what it is
or tries to become
but red spills and a silenced tongue.
It wills itself away,
pities itself in many ways: That Death.
I am not stronger than it, or love,
but I can outfly its reach, its trials.
I can eat and peck at its great successes;
I am fueled by its spoils,
awakened by its cries.
I hear it stalking me in my mind
but I shall win by staying of it behind
watching the little one die.
The weak sparrow with its meager song
is nothing to me, nothing to it,
but to everything: That little Death.