And Marches in Shame

So here comes the knocking at my door again.

I wonder if I can ask

 

for a little respite, how it would be

to ask to breathe.

 

I grip the knob anyway, jewel-hard in my hand

and fling it open and away

 

and marches in Shame, with her binoculars;

Grief, with her matchbook;

 

and Truth, with his ropes and scalpels

and sponges for mopping it all up.

 

Again, the breath. They ask me,

“Who will sing songs once you are dead?”

 

My fingers are stiff, my mouth dry. The scalpels

plunge. No one no one no one.