Where There Is No Feasting Poem by Patti Masterman

Breathe me,
while the moon's shadow
moves across our faces;
while the winds challenge time.
Breathe me,
before the sand runs out the glass,
and the clocks hands bind.
Breathe me,
while the flesh still wears us like its decoration;
Breathe me,
don't use up the hours on hesitation.

Breathe me; breathe us in on a single breath-
And feast fully now, because later comes death.

Breathe me; and we'll try to keep death at bay-
For there is no feasting in the grave, they say.