Color of Darkness

O Death, tell us of that, of the great beyond, about which man entertain doubt

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It has all seemed a little lot like Earth up until now,

whether dreams or memories or the same faces.

But this isn’t the familiar anymore. I hang in the black

of something far more ancient than night, deeper

than lava veins and earthquake plates left from when our

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patch of home was born in vibrant, sizzling flame fire.

This darkness must be the rim of outer space,

beyond the birth and death of cycling suns and stars.

And although I could sink and settle into the

comfort of velvet blackness and wait for my call,

my waltz across the floor, my knock at the door,

I can’t help but storm through this stage like

Queen Katrina, shouting out my lines like King Henry

or Hamlet or the man who killed the old king.

Every line hooks upwards like a fishing line—

I am waiting for Jonah’s whale to swallow

my heart, just to stretch out my fingers

and tap the fluttering comets that trail

behind the cosmic clothes of God.