Death’s Dinner Party
The Seattle fog condenses on our skin
as we walk from the Saturday house play; Antigone
would never face such a dense wall as we wallow through death’s
dinner party. We were his guests it seems as I clung to the arm
of your Armani suit. Our lungs breathe in what could
have been exhaust or the sky, depending on how you
look at it. Looking up from the balcony, I see a lone
mist barely formed across the cuticle of a moon, wipe
my glasses to hide the shiver from your cool touch. What
is there to fear as you turned to sip your bourbon?
When I was ten, the night sky was never so allusive nor fearful
as I squinted to find the lone figure staring down from the rooftop
across our building while the catacombs of the city loomed.
Turning then, I knew as if always knowing
that our deathbed tucked in so tightly could not bring back
what I had seen, the naivety of the unknowing would
hover over us as we dreamed of nothing.
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