I thought of the poet who had entered hospice, the way his mouth had finished its long job.

His body parts tying things up. I sensed that the poet had died that night. All the writers’

words became hours. Everything they talked of, I no longer cared about. Everything I had seen

in my life turned to wood. Without softness, I became so lost that I knocked on the wooden

moon and my dead father answered. I asked him why he wasn’t in my heart. He handed me a

small cloth to wet my eyes for seeing in the fires. Another to cover my mouth. He hung a spyglass

around my neck, said nothing, detached my sadness, held onto it like a briefcase. He turned

me around and sent me back down. When I returned, the mirrors were wood too. Without

the mirrors, all the writers had scattered. When I stood in front of the mirror, I saw nothing but

wood too. I had seen death up close twice, but I hated that I was still no better than anyone else.

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