After Her

I am underground where the roots

of trimmed conifers strangle water from clay

and daylight filters through half-drawn window blinds,

still dusty with the lives of strangers. My grey face

reflected in that window becomes gaunt and ghosted.

Outside the cinderblock walls, ambulances

and fire trucks streak towards the hospital

or away. Red flashes light up the night and whining

sirens wrench my dreams into deafening wails.

I burrow here in this basement along 13 Mile Road,

a short stretch between life and death, and die

each afternoon only to wake again to black mornings.

Friends send wreaths of flowers, propped

against the door, leave plastic-wrapped casseroles

with small notes of condolences. Everything rots

with love.

I wonder sometimes if God resides in the dim

light bulb that hangs from my ceiling, and whether

I might come closer to heaven if I noose myself there.

But I am too sad, even for staged dying

and instead I improvise living, listen to jazz,

mark my days by etching lines in notebook paper,

connecting them with curves until poetry covers

the blank space, and I feel written.

Later I will chisel this into stone, leave

this place, and go home.

©Ami Mattison

Photo courtesy of howzey