5 / Mystery, for Dave

Posted on by Nancoise

Mystery, for Dave

 

When Dave didn’t die from the aortic aneurysm

like the eighty-five percent who do

he said Nancy, what does it even mean

to be alive?  What happens when we die?

Does it matter how we live

if we’re just going to die?

 

I said Dave, when I tore my Achilles

I drove up a mountain

because I couldn’t walk

and I lay on a picnic table all night

to watch the meteors shower.

 

I said Dave, when I noticed a green anemone

in a tidepool surrounded by crushed white shell

I could see the pink-red outline

of each sticky tentacle.

 

I said Dave, the soil around madrona

always seems blacker than anywhere

and the flank of that tree stays cool in the sun.

 

I said Dave, how the yellow jacket

loves the overripe plum.

 

I said Dave, I don’t know.

 

I said Dave, the bison’s strong head

new-tattooed on your shoulder.

 

I said Dave, your fingertips

when you feel the potatoes for moisture

then roll out and turn over each lefse.

 

I said Dave, your delicious square grin

each time you come toward me open armed

for an enveloping hug—your squeeze

like the sweetest warm-risen dough.

 

I said Dave, you didn’t die from the aortic aneurysm

like the eighty-five percent who do.

I’m glad we’re alive.

Something happens when we

live.  It’s a mystery.

 

(response to “mystery” prompt)

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