Ute Carson

In the waiting room of the dying
bodies clad in sadness
make last statements
as time runs out
like sand in an hourglass.

They sit on chairs facing each other
sewing shrouds,
thread whispering through cloth,
weaving light and dark hues into the fabric
for lives lived or unclaimed.

Anemic blood, capillaried skin,
dry vaginas, drooping penises,   
drum-bellied guts and failing hearts,
angrily trying to muffle the voice of death.
All the while, earthbound flesh longs for weightlessness.

Other bodies wean themselves slowly from life,
revisit bygone places, reconnect with long-lost loves,
and relive past pleasures.
Tremors of yearning still pulse through veins worn thin
and unquenched desire burns on in old eyes,
until a gentle breeze snuffs out the last labored breaths
and sends parting puffs of gratefulness into the smoky air.    

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on September 8, 2012, in POETRY, Ute Carson and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 10 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes Ute Carson, who’s sent in this one fine poem. I was reminded of Lucian Freud’s take on bodies and people.

  2. Some passages undertakes us to transmogrified bodies in both a Sigmund and Lucian Freud sense in a gloating picture of clinical death. This poem reeks in blood and smoke of a histrionic hype on a collaboration with a death cult or camp. I wish Ute could choose life instead of an axis word and power play on the anatomically melancholy humors of humanity’s dark side.

  3. Close to home, very well expressed, Ute – and full of compassion, I felt.

  4. Love the opening lines:
    “In the waiting room of the dying
    bodies clad in sadness”

    “They sit on chairs facing each other
    sewing shrouds”

    At first, I misread “thread whispering through cloth” as “thread whispering through clot” and thought that was really cool.

    Another good line: “All the while, earthbound flesh longs for weightlessness”

    Thank you for sharing this; I enjoyed it.

  5. Honest yet gentle. Thank you for the poem!

  6. Brings it home to me: Brutally honest about the fragility of our form, and a passing on to something place unknown.

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