You are dying
in the palms of my hands,
they clutch the throat while
singing.
And as I hold you there I am
dying in the center of your heart.
At the center of the blood
of this collective single heart a whisper:
what is coming has gone,
what is born is undone,
what you reach for reaches
beyond.
This life is feeding itself to death,
death into life.
What hurts us is the feeding,
what hurts most
is the way the heart
keeps beating.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 