Ten.
In April
We pretend to be dead
Light as a feather, stiff as a board
Fifty.
In August
I pretend to have energy
Heavy as lead, itchy as a rash
I am here again
Wishing I had my friends’ fingers
Pressed under my back
Shoulders, legs, bottom
Lifting me up
Chanting for me
I am floating on top of a mosh pit
I am flying past chandeliers, over fancy clothes
Me in sweats and t-shirt
I am here again
Decades go by and I no longer
pretend to be dead
Most of us don’t now
Too many close calls
Too many we know didn’t make it this long
We are too thankful for the life that is left
Ten. In April
It was the only way we had
To talk about bodies without life
Tell stories about how a person lived
Worldly deeds
Relationships
Favorites
I pretend to have energy
Focus on words, prisms of light
Fingers massage my temples
Chocolate and iced tea
Passion of course
Decaf of course
Because I want to fall asleep tonight
Fifty. In August.
Still dreaming I could be
Light
like a feather
Strong
like wood
chanting for me
regardless
of
this
fatigue
These words and images are the property of the poet, Sharon Frances.
Do not use in part or whole without permission.