What of my own death?
(after Marie Howe)

I wear a shawl
of black liquid
draped across my pale shoulders.
There is no light.
All I can see is myself and my scars,
softly glowing without radiance.
I always move towards a Shadow
that I cannot see or feel,
but I hear it murmur
in the distance.
This darkness is heavy
it presses down on me from all sides
until I am suffocating.
And then I see it—
your hand
is a glimmer of light in the darkness.
I can almost reach;
our fingers brush against each other
and then I am consumed
by the Shadow.