Before my death, I was patiently awaiting
(in spite of the fear of the undiscovered country)
the refreshment of the blank page, surcease of
pain,
and an end both to the importunity of living
desire and the discomfort of dying.
So that after I died it was a shocking surprise
to find that I was still alive, still bearing
the same morbid fetishes, never confessed,
the same awkward past life, painful to remember,
dangerous to own.
And I stood in my footsteps, naked, uncertain
before I didn't know what judgment,
bashful, hoping to be found serviceable, maybe
just to clean out the bathrooms and report back
when I thought I was finished.
My dying was like fainting during a long sermon,
oblivion fading gradually to reveal
the whole congregation staring down at me—
coming to myself reluctantly to accept
the embarrassment of my death.
February, 1999
