Ah, the joys of intrusive thoughts…
Snug as a Gun
Relatively often, apropos of nothing,
the fact of my death launches itself
through my brain. A hard word-capsule
propels through the pinkish folds, moving
like a bullet through gelatinous liver,
parting the flesh of cerebral cortex
on its long journey to my brain-stem,
the blood-fed basal root where body joins soul.
I have to let it out, somehow,
allow it to pass, allow it some damage,
a bow-wave, anything to get through
this moment when facts are not made of words.
Death shoots from my mouth
while I’m chopping my salad.
Bad aim; it surfaces where my husband
can hear from his perch on the mind-colored couch.
Meant for me, it injures him;
morethan a little superfluous bleeding.
A trigger, compressed, compulsive,
launches towards his heart.