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Amy Soppet

The Token Death Poem

there is nothing original about death.
nothing worth my ink cartridge, anyway.
death isn't original,
plagiarized and re-warmed over and over each day
for teachers and grandpas and dogs named Bear.
for whores and visionaries.
for babies.

death is not original,
but resourceful.
it hoards the tools of its trade.
religion and handguns.
karma and motor vehicle accidents.
cerebral hemorrhages in the morning,
with the sun gone red in empathy and acceptance.
cardiac arrests at noon,
while pre-schoolers eat peanut butter and jelly
and drink warm milk from a Barbie thermos.
brutal midnight stabbings
while lovers lay asleep and naked
in the apartment across the street.

death is not original,
but it scares us anyway.
with its crept-up way of walking
and the very human perceptions we make
of darkness.