THE HOUSE OF DEATH
Martin Higgins
I knew she labored in The House of Death,
Pressing cool cloth to fevered skulls,
Wasted hands too frail to wring a towel,
Incapable of lifting even the smallest spoon of sweetwater.
I knew she lived her compassion,
Serving life-lost time wasters, patient patients,
Beyond bright conversation, past new friendship,
Looking for a box to hold the end-game pieces.
I knew she would never take a partner, her time so divided
That no bright conversation, no new friendship ever kept her
From her station at the Threshold of Eternity
In The House of Death.
And I knew she loved me, my mortal wounds, my imminent demise,
At her feet, stealing her attention, silently begging as I sunk,
Spirit-shattered but firm in faith that inevitable release,
Liberation, would bring an end to my suffering and heavy hope.
But she knew only that her life was office-bound,
Talking into a telephone and spending long, lazy lunches,
With very important nobodies, creative ... packages,
A name, a face and eminently market-ready.
She also knew (reminding me every time we lay sweating sex-scented and sated)
That she was at heart a girl's girl, not a boy's girl, my water sister,
Not bound in blood. But neither was I her boy...
I was a man dying, in the House of Death.
So I loved her, toes on the rim of the abyss,
Bleeding from scores of careless stab wounds,
Losing aged body to ageless spirit,
Secure in the trust of her service at my passing.
And while we played at love,
Hot and portentous,
We found it thin and ephemeral,
When laid atop our crossed destinies.
When the day came,
As you know it must,
Death did arrive,
And the soul flys free... I flew.
Oh" I wanted so for her to fly with me"
To leave her post, missionless and free...
And fly! Not to me or from me,
But from herself and to herself
And I ached to see that change come over her,
I ached to see her die
And leave her burning tear service to another
In that long tired line of those who are never themselves served.
But she picked up her phone
And wrung out her cloth
And moved to her next station
In The House of Death"
Copyright © 2016
Martin Higgins
all rights reserved
Pressing cool cloth to fevered skulls,
Wasted hands too frail to wring a towel,
Incapable of lifting even the smallest spoon of sweetwater.
I knew she lived her compassion,
Serving life-lost time wasters, patient patients,
Beyond bright conversation, past new friendship,
Looking for a box to hold the end-game pieces.
I knew she would never take a partner, her time so divided
That no bright conversation, no new friendship ever kept her
From her station at the Threshold of Eternity
In The House of Death.
And I knew she loved me, my mortal wounds, my imminent demise,
At her feet, stealing her attention, silently begging as I sunk,
Spirit-shattered but firm in faith that inevitable release,
Liberation, would bring an end to my suffering and heavy hope.
But she knew only that her life was office-bound,
Talking into a telephone and spending long, lazy lunches,
With very important nobodies, creative ... packages,
A name, a face and eminently market-ready.
She also knew (reminding me every time we lay sweating sex-scented and sated)
That she was at heart a girl's girl, not a boy's girl, my water sister,
Not bound in blood. But neither was I her boy...
I was a man dying, in the House of Death.
So I loved her, toes on the rim of the abyss,
Bleeding from scores of careless stab wounds,
Losing aged body to ageless spirit,
Secure in the trust of her service at my passing.
And while we played at love,
Hot and portentous,
We found it thin and ephemeral,
When laid atop our crossed destinies.
When the day came,
As you know it must,
Death did arrive,
And the soul flys free... I flew.
Oh" I wanted so for her to fly with me"
To leave her post, missionless and free...
And fly! Not to me or from me,
But from herself and to herself
And I ached to see that change come over her,
I ached to see her die
And leave her burning tear service to another
In that long tired line of those who are never themselves served.
But she picked up her phone
And wrung out her cloth
And moved to her next station
In The House of Death"
Copyright © 2016
Martin Higgins
all rights reserved