Death’s Pocketbook

Used to look like an empty skull but now it’s bloating
like a belly. He keeps stealing tears from the buffet

and pitchforks from the tables. Just in case.
You’d be surprised at what people leave

in the lost and found. Leftover bits of teeth,
a cracked rib, a dead stepfather, a rotten soul.

I don’t think he notices the change. His eyes are gone bad,
and he rarely looks behind him anyway.

In a storage shed at the back of the world are photos of him
before he got so skinny. He doesn’t like to talk about it.

I call Death collect every Sunday, because I am resting
and he likes to hear the rustle of my cells

ashing to the sheets. Sometimes he sends me money,
silver quinarius, turtled drachms, paper notes

from the Yuan Dynasty. I go to the hospital
and put them on the eyes of the dying.

I call Death collect every Sunday, because sometimes
he tells me what he’s found in the bottom of his purse.

Because sometimes he calls me by my mother’s name
and says, look, my love, what I’ve brought back for you.  


Palm Reading

Images of Death and The Lovers, pulled at random from the deck. 
Words written in the leather chair in the corner.
Time Taken 5.5 minutes.
Brain on the novel I need to write.

This entry was published on June 3, 2012 at 10:30 am and is filed under Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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