Paul Hostovsky
is someone has to pronounce
your death, which is, of course,
unpronounceable. There are no words
for this. And yet we say
death. We used to say deeth
in Middle English, and before that, Tod
in Old High German (the final d
properly pronounced like a t).
It's called The Pronouncement of Death
form, and someone has to fill it out.
And it can't be just anyone. It has to be
a physician, someone who ostensibly
knows how to pronounce the name
of the thing that killed you, and presumably
knows its etiology, though probably not the etymology
of death. And there's a good
possibility he won't pronounce
your name right, especially if your name
is Hostovsky, which people are always
mispronouncing and misspelling, even though
it's properly pronounced exactly the way
it's written. Anyway, now that you're dead
it is given to him to pronounce it. And then
there are lots of other forms to be filled out.
There is the death certificate and the cremation form
and the union and pension forms
and the social security form and the bank account
reconciliation form, and so on and so forth. And so
there will be the sound of writing, a sound you loved well
when you lived and wrote. That productive sound
of putting pen to paper--there will be a lot of that
when you die. And even though it's not
the kind of writing you would choose if it were
up to you, still, it is writing. And in that,
if nothing else, you can take some solace.
Rich Murphy
Waiting for treads to print dead,
the patient looks down the road
from a curb for a bus weighted full
with commuters who will go on today,
holding newspapers at a distance.
Some terminal cases want to know
the impossible dodge
while others desire to be upright citizens
until hit from behind.
Either way seeing yields at nothing only.
The street and neighborhood seam
with silence stitching along the outerwear
on the quiet consumer binging
on habit, routine, tradition:
anxiety-shields patch against leaks.
With one eye out and one whorl alert
the granted guest prepares
to pivot for headlights with faith
that dear life cushions the leap to avoid.
