On my left hand, poised
Over the control key of the word
Processor, my forefinger
Grew numb and then
My thumb. I was writing a poem
About death. Insatiable tourist
That I am, it was a travel
Brochure luring me to visit
The valley of the shadow. I leaped
Up, flexing my digits
Above my head, and danced
Around the living room
To the pulsing strains of an eleison:
Robert J’s contribution
To post-Easter Monday.
This could not be happening. I sat
Down again and copied
The poem with many a change
Mode and saved it on the disk>
If I were dying, at least
That would be finished. But blood
Was now returning to my hand.
Taking off my robe,
I found the elastic wrist
Of my knitted sweatshirt nightgown
Had been pushed too high up
On my arm, cutting off circulation.
Interesting as they sound, apparently
I was not yet a candidate
For an early death experience.
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