Hold the Applause

No lustrous trumpets shook the end of my life.
No prelapsarian mouth, half-open, as if surprised

to herald a miracle. That would’ve been nice.
If in intensive care I saw doves swarm the blood-

covered trauma team like bees. And what of my arc
from the driver’s seat to the tops of longleafs? My fall

in images: elbows, torso, branches as exposed bones
and then I crawled, Praise God, I dragged my legs

and they were numb as wings, scalded into something
like brain. Pear scent. Away from flame. My tongue

tested the merciful dirt before a prayer gurgled forth
and then the bountiful morphine rain. Sheets of it.

This is the narcotic lie of writing. That if I dress up death
you’ll bend with its heaviness and in buckling

finally understand. Have you ever clipped a stop sign
and been surprised at the size of the shock wave?

Heard a boom so honest it makes your ears ring?
Brake screech. A Chevy slingshots into trees.

The tinkling of glass, then a second
and a half later the thud. I was drunk.

Now I’m laughing at how simple it was.