SLIPPING THE GLOVE

I pray to you—do not separate my breath from my body. Protect me from death. Grant me immortality

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It’s a mix of fear, plane-jumping adrenaline,

and soar. Turns out the body is a suit, armor,

something we shoulder on the infant Earth.

And leaving? It’s the rush of fall, blaze of colors

and smell of autumn—change is in the air here.

It was simple really. Like slipping the glove

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from your hand, every home-done stitch

in the fabric, tear and stain and dirt patch

cast aside, forgotten as my spirit rears like young

horses and I step through my eyelids, leaving

my body behind, but not the self. I wave goodbye to

the statue I once called home, an automaton

without an owner—no one to pull those strings,

because I am only dazzling, wondrous spirit,

warm and celestial and gleaming like the prospect

of tomorrow. I suppose it was like falling asleep,

except I did not fall. I did not close my eyes. I did

not drift into the casual realm of the unreal. Just as easy

as sleep, but with eyes open like hopeful lands,

blazing towards the real and ancient before.

Dying—leaving the body—a revelation.