there are some who will say
that the death is found in the corpse –
the walking rendition of 3 days empty; the
bones grinning through skin
they’ll find it in the empty plates and the
blue beneath your fingernails – brittle;
the physical ache and they’ll swear
they see the death too in the hair circling down the
drain; that it’s revealed in the denied dinner and that
it shouts from the 2 digit number on the scale
or the one that boasts the hours you’ve been
without sustenance; they’ll insist that it shows
in circles dragging tired eyes
the muscle lost rather than gained performing
feat after feat of strength, in the dizzy
that spikes with every sudden movement
and the numb limbs that carry you through your days




but i would argue that
it’s in the cold, not only on the skin, but the one
wrapping itself around parts that hide deeper than the surface
the death is hiding in the pride of the discoloration of skin,
in the embarrassing comfort of lost hair
i have found it lurking not in the forgoing of meals, but
in the crying after
because, mom i know you worked so hard making my favorite, but
i just can’t
in the sinking to the floor because anything but less than before
is too much; it’s in the disorder that rocks you to sleep,
the entire days nobody notices you have not left
your bed, even if your body has
but even standing is too difficult, and the ghost you’ve become
still manages to run an extra mile
the death shows in the numbers that govern your body
so that you worry upon standing without the loss of vision, the colors
swirling to congratulate – “job well done”
and the numbness not in the cage you call a body, but the
lack of anything inhabiting it


it’s not in the presence, but in the absence
death is not in the dying; it’s in
the silence that follows