Death At

Dead At

At 79. At 54. “Dead at 27.” That’s what we say. What about “Dead during a sunset on the beach.” Why not “Famous man dead just after end of rainfall on Thursday night.” Or “Local woman dead just before voting in the Presidential election.” I am lying on my small balcony. A floorboard has come unnailed, the wood dry-shrunk and warped from the heat of the lengthening summer. Gnawing in my gut. No faces in the wood. Nothing to be scryed into. The events of my life are unfolding like a slow curse. We realize, accumulatively, that we’re more likely than not to die right after an event we’ll dismiss without a thought. Walking behind a row of cars in a parking lot. A speck of food on your child’s mouth you clean away with your thumb. Reading a joke online by a friend you don’t believe cares about you anymore. I don’t want to be dead at a brilliant thought. I want to be dead at being told I just had a brilliant thought. The desperate mind is a shipyard and the workers cannot swim.

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