WEBVTT

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"The Coffin Store."

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I was lugging my death
from Kampala to Kraków.

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Death, what a ridiculous
load you can be,

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like the world trembling
on Atlas's shoulders.

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In Kampala, I'd wondered
why the people, so poor,

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didn't just kill me.

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Why don't they kill me?

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In Kraków, I must have fancied
I'd find poets to talk to.

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I still believed then I'd
domesticated my death,

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that he'd no longer gnaw
off my fingers and ears.

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We even had parties together.

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'Happy,' said death, and
gave me my present, a coffin,

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my coffin, made in Kampala, with
the sliding door in its lid,

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to look through, at the sky,
at the birds, at Kampala.

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That was his way,
I soon understood,

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of reverting to talon
and snarl, for the door

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refused to come open.

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No sky, no bird, no
poets, no Kraków.

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Catherine came to me then, came
to me then, 'open your eyes,

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mon amour,' but
death had undone me.

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My knuckles were raw as an
ape's, my mind slid like

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a sad-angled skate, and no
matter what Catherine was

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saying, was sighing,
was singing, 'Mon amour,

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mon amour,' the door
stayed shut, oh, shut.

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I heard trees being
felled, skinned, smoothed,

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hammered together as coffins.

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I heard death
snorting and stamping,

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impatient to be
hauled off, away.

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But here again was Catherine,
sighing and singing,

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and the tiny carved wooden
door slid ajar, just enough.

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The sky, one single
bird, Catherine.

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Just enough.

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