Poem Of The Week 'Little Death' by Tom Moloney
The feeling from little Death riddles decline.
The child is grown-up, the grown-up is child.
To be is to know, no more need to do.
For now, you’ve come to your breath’s release.
There’s a hint of triumph or of questioning
your mortal lease, the policy outlined in
the skewed curve that the old life has drawn in
times of smiles and cries, some measure of peace.
No cruel streak emerges but part of that Bang
you have mimicked with your pulse turned to ‘on’.
With eyes dilated, know that you’re in Heaven,
her electrifying kiss… infinity,
her body, beyond words, a receptacle.
Know too, you have breathed immortality.