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The poems

Made by Teresa Marrin
© 2010-2012

ambush

The surprising thing about death
Is the speed with which it strikes
You are talking, shopping
Going to lunch, unpacking groceries
And suddenly you are
Watching a life ebb away
And organ donor people asking necessary questions
And a coroner studying abrasions
And absently sorting through medications
And then suddenly the machines are shut off
And there is that terrible quiet
And you wait for the chest to rise
The eyes to open
And the hand to squeeze reassuringly
And you realize for the first time, ever
That you can’t wait for them anymore
And then there is another
Rapid-fire sequence
Memorial arrangements and flowers
And cards and phone calls
And a hearse with a black bag
And your life zipped up inside it
And ashes and insomnia
And a sudden urge to scream in the car
Until you have no voice
And suddenly, finally
It is quiet again – really quiet
And you feel the emptiness
Wrap itself around you
The emptiness of the place they left
In your house, in your arms
In your heart, in your life
And you wait, helplessly,
For the next ambush
And the severity with which it comes
Is directly proportional to
The degree of love
And somewhere, inside the pain
You are glad, at least, for that