poetry critical

online poetry workshop


There are so many things they don't tell you about dying.
The sound your last hundred breaths make
rattling around in your chest,
pulled in from the world so hard that you'd think
your ribs might break for the effort.
The way your daughter will keep you
surround your rotting form like
lions, protecting you and damning you
from a place of love,
or what felt like love at the time
The choices you don't get to make
The time that keeps getting reset, an hour,
a few days, a few months,
futile dodges and broken lines,
broken body,
full of holes and missing blood, air
The aftermath is almost never worse than the during,
the time you spend in (or out) of the ether,
either confused or scared or alone or with bodies packed in too close,
and there is rarely a good choice to make,
but there are plenty of ways to be wrong.

12 Feb 18

(define the words in this poem)

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