Death gets one night with every woman,
luring her into his foggy bedroom with
the most final of embraces,
kissing her body back into
the blackness between stars.
By then he’s dark with longing.
He has waited all her life, even if
Katie’s a mere sixteen and died
behind the wheel of a Mustang.
With deaths like hers, you wonder
if Death was playing fair; did
he throw that raccoon in the road
or hand her that extra beer?
And what about Amy, who drowned in the lake?
Did Death see her, skinnydipping, and
yank her ankles into the deep?
Death has always been greedy, but
who can stop him, what can they say?
Where do you think we got the
phrase drop dead gorgeous anyway?
Still, I wonder if he’s tender,
as I am with you tonight,
closing the burgundy curtains
against Death’s omniscient eyes?
Why do you think I hide you in
the movies, the theater? Because
Death sees through the eyes of insects
and few insects gather there.
Why do you think, when we’re walking
through the park on a sunny day,
I tremble at the sight of butterflies
circling your face?
Wolff Bowden, From “Heavyweight Champion of The Night”