With Only One Dead. Poem by RIC BASTASA

at the last hour
it will be absurd that with
all these
late things you still have
to ask for a pen
and paper and
write the last poem of your life.

know well, at the last hour, everyone
becomes a haze, no one is amazed,
and you situate yourself into a maze
of your own
hidden labyrinth. No one says this
clearly. No one sees it anyway.

mother's last hour was spend holding
my hands
that comfort her that she will be met
by an angel carrying a
light in his hands

and with a nod they walk together
towards the open door which closes finally
admitting no one

the last hour is silent and then
a burst of cries come in
like a bomb inside the room
exploding
with only one
dead.