The stream made a merry little
sound as it washed her brain
and her britches. She dug deep
into her sack of surplus fears. It
was the last day.
She died by inches. A doctor
in that time was never thought
of--he was next to the under-
taker--and besides, who
had the money?
She was young. She had not been
interested in dying. But no one she
knew ever went anywhere except
to die. Nothing was supposed
to turn out right.
She lay there and drank deep like
a stone-age woman in evil
luck, addressing unfeeling gods
who had not protected her
from interested violence.
For her, life and death gurgled
the same. She died like a ripe
pomegranate with his supple hot
red seeds going pock pock pock
inside her.
By Kathryn Starbuck