Death will come
Verra la morte e avra i tuoi occhi questa morte che ci accompagna dal mattino alla sera, insonne, sorda, come un vecchio rimorso o un vizio assurdo. “Verra la morte e avra i tuoi occhi” Cesare Pavese
She’s the one you met when your dog died sixty years ago, the one you’ve been waiting for, the one in the grade school photo you lost, the one at your last middle school sock hop, the one so elusive as to be forbidden you in the backseat of your father’s car – an old remorse, an absurd vice, a foolish damn dream, an obscure desire, a kindness forgotten until now when all that’s left you is memory.
Death at the museum
She knows every piece, every artist. Best tour guide, she can talk about desperation – that of creation, self-doubt, debt, self-loathing, the slow ebbing of talent, vision, gift, that of losses – sight, hearing, grip, but her area is really world- weariness, battle fatigue, burnout, how quickly the flame extinguishes, how long before the burnt stops smoking.
Death at the movies
She sits in the back row, feet on the seat in front of her, and throws popcorn, talks constantly. She’s already seen the show – every damn one, whispers the end of each – who dunnit, who gets the girl, who lives or dies. Don’t even try to shush her. You’ve no idea how many die in movie theaters.
Douglas K Currier holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Pittsburgh and writes poetry in English and Spanish. He has published in several journals: The Café Review, Main Street Rag, The Comstock Review, and others, as well as in the anthologies: Onion River: Six Vermont Poets, Getting Old, Welcome to the Neighborhood, and Poemas Zafados in North and South America. He lives with his wife in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
See Ann Privateer