Here or There

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.