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Dave Bonta
The skull whose name was smoke spoke
worm words. Its missing teeth hissed
from the gizzard of an owl.
How odd, I thought, to be a skull
& haunt a body from within!
The air smelled of rotting
leaves; it was October.
Icy feathers began to form
on the edges of grass blades—
the only kind of next life
that made sense to me, stoned as I was.
My gut gurgled polyphonically.
I considered fear as if from a great height.
I often wonder, Oscar,
How it fares with you ;
Do you look down and smile on us,
From that vast realm of blue ?
Tell me, Brother, do you hear
The belching cannon's roar?
Does their death-dealing thunder break
Your peace on yonder shore ?
I seem to hear you answering,
That toil and pain and woe
And care and strife — ah! yes, and death
Were left behind, below.
He leans across a golden table,
Confronts God with an eye
Still puzzled by the standard label
All flesh bears: Made to die —
And questions Him if He is able
To reassure her why.