The mechanics of the end are unclear, but we all know,
and we all must begin to say goodbye. My family is
together again and we are each embodying a different stage
of grief. I am always acceptance, begging to go around
in a circle and offer love, while from the ceiling falls
a thin strain of dust. Our game of Jenga is left unfinished.
Someone has smashed the TV. I think about how, when I
was a child, my parents told me that if a white butterfly
flew into my mouth, I would die. Even years later,
when I knew it wasn’t true, there was an instinctual
recoil, a clench of my jaw, when one came near. Now
I would open my mouth to anything living. There is
a low distant rumbling and a screech like a seabird.
I am on my knees trying to shake you from a dream.
I hope when the end comes it is soft and gentle,
a flurry of white wings in my mouth. I want to hear
you say you love me one last time.
In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.
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