death

I find you in the quiet places,

where the wind turns old

and the earth remembers bones.

You try not to tremble, but I feel it,

that little flutter beneath your ribs,

the wild animal of you still struggling to live.

I circle you, slow as winter,

patient as the rot that softens kings.

You smell of rain and fear and warm flesh,

such sweetness ripens only once,

and only briefly.

Do not run.

I am already inside your breath.

Every step you take is toward me,

your soles kiss the soil,

and the soil belongs to me.

The grave yawns only for love,

and I am so very faithful.

I will not take you cruelly.

No, when I come,

you will lean into me like a tired prayer,

and I will gather you, quiet, complete,

into my gnashing maw.