REMISSION

It seems you must grow

into your death slowly,

as if it were a pair of new shoes

waiting on the closet floor,

smelling of the animal

it came from, but still too big

too stiff for you to wear.

Meanwhile you dance barefoot

your shaky dance of pretence,

and we dance with you,

the pulses in our own wrists

ticking away.

In this small truce

the body waits,

having waged war on itself

for years. You say

the water tastes of flowers.

You steal on tiptoe

past the closet door.