A Bigger Boat

poem by

A letter of grief.

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Perhaps, if death were kind,
        it would detonate aged muscles like a
                house of planks,
        and so the theatre of feeling
                behind your eyelids,
    aping real expressions
                        as you descend
would be just a jumble of sad resemblances
    whispered in free-fall.
But, if considered dizzyingly close, muscles
                tiny as hairs
        (eyes closed, cheeks twitching)
might reflect your morgue-bed journey
    outwards from pain,
        and the nagging sense
            that your torture
                is constraining you for its own, selfish ends.
You look,
        —an almost-frown,
            a widening of realization—
        as though
            you are not yet up to
                                                                        dying
so long as you cling to that little body.

© 2018 Dylan Keeling

Dylan is a citizen of the world, growing up in Holland and USA before moving to England. He writes, makes movies and plays a mean piano.

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