Intubated” and “Block Out the Fact That You’re Dying”
Full text
Intubated
1There is an opening where the sick
sense stirs, the disease of disunity,
the ringing ears.
There is a space for the dark parts
and spoiled maps, the rationing
of faith.
The art is finished, you say, turning her
over in your mind.
In your mind, there is only closing
and unprepared rooms, the dirt and
ash undoing each little altar,
undoing all of you.
Why must you take
the stars, they are in all of us?
Why must you dismember
the constellations, the symmetry
of forever? I am a body
littered with capitals,
love letters left in my joints.
It is nighttime in this gothic
place. And the nightingales
have taken flight,
their plumage
falling like offerings.
Block Out the Fact that You're Dying
2They are absolutely perfect eyes
discarded beneath a decent hand,
the deep wine like day-old blood.
He deals two hearts, they are bibles
gone missing like Homer holding
the Odyssey. A man sculpting
a bridge between his thumbs digs
for Winter light. I cross myself,
blocking the fact of dying.
We bluff our full flushes, the wine-dark
day like day-old blood. The night
has gone bad, rancid stomachs,
too much sugar tooth.
There is a moon practicing
the dead art of love across
a window. It is not like falling,
she mouths. The hour is sick.
The deep wine like day-
old blood is a rot.
Outside, there is a memory
of a woman, she is dancing the devil's
sign language. Everything looks
of Halloween. And the time tells that fear
is every man's portion
to block out the fact that you're dying.
References
Electronic reference
Tara Propper, “Intubated” and “Block Out the Fact That You’re Dying””, Angles [Online], 18 | 2024, Online since 01 November 2024, connection on 23 January 2026. URL: http://journals.openedition.org/angles/8328; DOI: https://doi.org/10.4000/12nxv
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