Perspective

“No one’s dying here," she tells me

and I am caught up short

counting little daily deaths --

those we shove in drawers,

kick under beds,

throw over balconies

at passersby.

Love is bloodied,

in critical condition

soon to be pronounced.

Laughter bubbles rise

from light's collapse.

Last folding chair

at your birthday party.

“No one’s dying here.”

©  April 16, 2012 Barbara Moore
Fearless Magazine