Sometimes It Occurs To Me That I Am Dead Poem by Mandy Coe

No and stop and stay are meaningless.
Clothes are not quick enough,
It is ridiculous
how I long for the rough wool collar of a coat,
the tight brim of a hat, the cold grip of shoes.

I was clumsy when I started;
a woman shrieked and dropped a plate,
a man dropped to his knees.
I hate the gritty suck of concrete
but have grown to love the slow swim of glass.
If I am tempted by floors I will be done for.

I try to remember what falling meant:
the explosion of breath,
a splintering of bone, the hammer
of earth swinging up.

If I lean forward and close my eyes
the world spins, passing through me like indigestion.
A tree x-rays my lungs, a blackbird sings
as it slides through my ribs.