this is how death is:

the year steals a person away.

A person loved now dead

dies all that year

an especially macabre, extended party

and entirely unplanned, but that’s how death is.

Reverse “birthday week”
 
 
each days marks a day closer to a day they weren’t there at all.

Erasing them by holiday,

and by season.

By habit,

and by dynamic.

By olfactory,

and by audio.

By everything!

and by nothing,

(it just stales)

until bye and bye

it turns…

Seemingly just like that

(the mundane continuity an abomination)

a ball drops

and a heart well and truly breaks, and

> never at any point <

in that next year

will the one lost

*still be okay*

(still time!)

and that’s how realization sets in,

and that’s how loss resounds,

and that’s how death is.

©Karen Robiscoe

skeletons

(in closets)

or out

–bones just can’t tell–

how their lives might have been…

if cheekbones

hollowed before

harvest

or bloomed,

if sockets ran rivers

or shone,

if hips

danced or

trudged a lone,

if ribs held hearts

broken

or whole,

if blades

squared

or

bowed,

if heels

dug in

or achille’d

if arms held

or kept at length.

–bones just can’t tell–

the story

behind mortal weaks

of flesh…

©Karen Robiscoe

Sure the dwarves

yo-ho’ed yo ho’ed

through the woods

on the way to work

 
–but they took HWY 163 home—

less singing along to the radio, too,

since

Quirky was tone deaf,

Weary was too bushed,

Leery never knew the right lyrics in the first place,

and Doc had his hands full with Sneezy & Dopey. . .

Only Happy clapped along en route

–it was his drop top—

and that’s just what those mind states did

–back at the homestead–

donned 7 PJ’s,

and hit the bunks

right at 9:15,

and never mind about So Right

who was out the window, anyway,

travelin’ in the opposite direction.

 
Labor day

has come and gone,

and so has its silly rules
 
 
–much like drinking white

wine with steak is okay

these days

(if not kosher)

you can go ahead

and wear those white knickers

year round!

you can also

forgive Karens

during this fine, festive fall

–if you’ve a mind to–

now that

piece work is done.