One day the ticking that is I will cease.
There will be no creak up the wooden
staircase of my bones, my toes will
no longer curl like tender fiddleheads
when tickled by the foot file.
All the hinged planes of my body, closed or open
will stubbornly refuse entry or exit,
push or pull, heave or heft. I will not notice
the fragrant nosegay of lavender you placed
in my soapstone hands, falsely carved into prayer.
My eyelids, now the texture of onion skin
have been closed to God by mortal fingers.
The only possibility of flight sprouts new
between the rigid yolk of my shoulders.
Soon I will be nowhere near between
- here or there -
and no-one at all will notice
my awkward attempts to lift off
with some last semblance of grace.