Death, be not proud,
though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful,
for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death,
nor yet canst thou kill me.
Thou art slave
to fate,
chance,
kings,
and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy
or charms
can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke;
why swell'st thou then?
we wake
eternally
And death shall be no more;
Death,
(Stay.)
thou shalt die.
That's what mothers say
when their sons and daughters go away, they say stay.
My mother said go.
So I wasn't there
the night she fell out of her wheelchair, so
frustrated that she amputated her own legs,
or rather tried to with a steak knife.
Her life leaking out on the white floor
blossoming like
roses in the snow.
Our relationship was an anthem composed of words like
gotta go.
So we went.
And sent our regards on postcards from other places we'd been
with stories about all the things we'd seen,
that's how it was with you and I;
why say good bye when we could still write.
But then it took your hands.
We should've practiced our goodbyes,
because then it took your eyes. And I was
somewhere,
in the middle of nowhere
watching the sun rise over a stop sign
placed down the centre line of a highway
filled with sudden turns for the worse.
Running back home 'cause I gotta play nurse.
Gotta figure out
which pill alleviates which pain,
which part of your brain is being used for a boxing bag
as your body became a never ending game of freeze tag,
taking place in an empty playground. I was left
looking for your limbs in a lost
and found, and I couldn't set you free.
So we just sat there.
Our heads bent towards each other like flowers
in the small hours of the morning, while
light wandered in like a warning that time is passing
and you right along with it,
Bit by bit every day.
And all I could say is if I could I
would write you some way out of this,
but my gift is useless.
And you said no.
Write me a poem to make me happy.
So I write Move pen move,
Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers...
But my mother just motions to a bottle full of answers and says
help me go.
And now I know something of how a piano must feel
when it looks at the fireplace to see
sheet music being used for kindling,
Smoke signalling the end of some song
that I thought it would take too long
to learn.
Now I just sit here watching you burn away
all those notes I never had a chance to play,
to hear the music of what you had to say.
I count out the pills just to see if I can do it.
I can't even get halfway through it
before I turn back into your son and say
I could hook up my heart
to your ears,
and let my tears be your morphine drip because
maybe it's easier to let you slip away than it is to say goodbye.
hold my breath.
Because in the count down to death
the question of why
melts into when.
How much time do we have left,
because if I knew what I know now then
Move pen move,
write me a mountain.
Because headstones are not big enough.
My mother says stop it,
Write me a poem to make me happy.
So I write this.
She smiles and says,
gotta go
I know.
Goodbye.

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