5 / Mystery, for Dave
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)