Nine Days Left

The Novena for this cycle is to write about what you would do if a doctor gave you only nine days to live.


Nine Days Left

An absurdly precise medical prediction
has left me, O’ Muse, only a novena of
days left to live. Sing through me Muse,
help me to perfect my days. Guide me
through the last of life, and grant me
a moment of simple joy in each day.

Day 9

"Boiling the Perfect Egg"

The white sphere cold in my palm,
the water raging in madness below,
is momentarily brought to its senses
by the plunge of a cold egg.
Three minutes and the magic
happens. Liquid turned solid,
a white corona surrounding
a solid, yellow sun. The shell
peels in great white chunks,
like tearing drywall from an old
house till the naked egg
lies quivering, yielding,
in my hand.

Day 8

"The Perfect Haircut"

“A number 2 all over,”
I tell the lady at Just-A-Cut.
She doesn’t know this will be
my Last-Just-A--Cut.
My baldness makes cutting
away what is already dead
an act possible to perfect,
its simplicity as beautiful
as the white, porcelain cup,
by the mirror before me,
in which rests
a black, plastic comb.

Day 7

"The Perfect Walk"

The moon behind me
my dog in front of me
no spider webs brush my face
no toads squish under my shoe
the pond thrums with secret life
a slight chill in the air
keeps the mosquitos
away and my dog and I
can walk for miles
and miles
and miles.

Day 6

“The Perfect Nap”

Today I shall make my bedroom

An inner sanctum, a refuge

from the sun’s afternoon

heat. I shall draw my curtains

across my windows and stifle

the voices in my mind. A good

nap is a luxury, a blessing

not to be wasted. Let the world

spin without for a couple of hours.

When I leave this world, will I count

the anxieties needlessly worried over,

or the peaceful hours under my covers?

Day 5

“The Perfect Memory”

Emotions cling to photographs

in the same way a single hair

on the floor gathers dust unto

itself. Photos in boxes, envelopes,

and half-finished albums litter my table top,

a shipwreck of memories washed ashore

by my tidal wave of efforts to find that

one photo, my most perfect memory,

you at the carnival,  bathed in neon light,

head thrown back, mouth open,

eyes full of delight as the cotton candy

jumps its cardboard cone and takes flight,

aided by a sudden breeze, and lands in your hair.

I know if I can find this picture, I will sleep tonight.

Your photo will be th charm that keeps the night

beasts, those twin hounds Anxiety and Regret,

chained to their trees for another night.

Day 4

“The Perfect Honey”

It is said the bee takes inventory of

her stock after that advance scout

of winter, the first frost, strikes.

She caps her combs, she counts her larvae,

she measures the royal jelly, she weighs

her honey, she clears the detritus of

summer from her hive. She seals

her home against the creeping cold,

and with her sisters huddles in a dense

ball of life, constantly churning, moving

from center to periphery, vibrating,

creating warmth to fight the pressing cold.

So shall I on this fourth day,

take stock of my life.  From what

people and books have I gathered

nectar, and how have a shared

the honey I have made. Have I

pollinated minds with new ideas?

Have I filled the honeycomb of

my life with supply enough

to nourish those who come after?

When my soul leaves to join

that eternal swarm, the pulsing,

vibrating, ball of life, forever

churning, forever cycling

from center to exterior and

back again, what warmth will

I bring, and what warmth will

I take? The hive of souls

awaits.

Day 3

“The Perfect Resting Place”

In lieu of speech and opposable thumbs,

God has granted- should they reach a

natural end to their lives- animals the

right to choose their final resting places.

Elephants shamble slowly down

dusty savannah trails to their graveyards.

Good dogs die with their master’s hand

resting on their heads, and cats slip into

shadows to  places unknown.

Squirrels cease their chattering

in leafy treetops,  and opossums

practice their death like method actors.

Rarely, is man given a choice. Our intelligence,

which is different from wisdom, keeps

us dying in sterile, white rooms, surrounded

by tubes, and the sounds of dementia

and mourning.

Grateful I am that the day of

my deliverance has been revealed

to me. My elephant’s graveyard,

which I approach, head down, shuffling,

will be an old recliner. A book shall

be on my lap, my dog shall be at

my feet, and I shall look out

my window, waiting for that

terrible beating of wings,

the approach of the unknown.

When it comes, may it find me

leaning forward in anticipation,

eager to know what comes next.

Day 2

“The Perfect Goodbye”

I shall double bag all my pornography

and take it to the trash-no one needs to find

that. I will write letters to loved ones and friends

asking for and granting forgiveness (they know

what they did and they know what I did). I will

max out my credit cards on Amazon ordering

extravagant gifts for those I love.

I will teach my dog how to order pizza

from Domino’s and leave him plenty of cash.

I will make a playlist of my favorite songs on

iTunes and listen to them all day. I will smoke a

last cigarette while watching the sunset from my porch.

I will read Walt Whitman and know that he is

somewhere

waiting

for me.

Day 1

“The Exit”

Wait. I have one more………

………………………………

Shadows

Shadows love to sing.
On still, moonless nights they
coalesce into choirs on
the steps of government buildings,
in the arched doorways of churches,
and the empty floors of parking garages.
They sing their hymns, their nearly
soundless vespers, sighing like the
wind through dead leaves, like distant waterfalls
only dogs and the mad can hear.

The sing for us, these shades of ours,
they see our days and know we need prayers.
Their chant is an invocation, as shadows know
a blessing for us is all they can ask
of the still, silent, space into which their
voices rise.

Send my Shadow

The new Novena prompt is "Where does your shadow go at night?"


I shall send my shadow
to watch over you at night.
From his ceiling perch he will
measure the metronome of
your breath, count the turns
your body makes under your
blankets, and monitor your
midnight mutterings for
murmurs of my name.