Overdose
I crawled on my hands,
shapes of beasts in the walls.
Slow at tying my shoes.
I don’t remember if it snowed.
How close to the mailbox, how far
abroad in nightclothes?
Birds clung high and copper to the trees.
In the far North a skier spoke meditation
to her innermost before pushing off.
If someone had showed me Dutch bulbs
I would have called them skulls.
To forget about spring
to practice the pose of burial.
Not the slope’s descent, but the landing,
and crowds converged to cheer.
I didn’t expect parades
broadcast above hospital beige.
Birds released from flight, a settling.
What to say to the world as I’m falling?
I am the beasts, groping midair and pall.
Dying is not an art.
Say a lucky move
lands you at the bottom
where faces blend. You rise,
part of your people again.
On Sunday afternoons, Laura English teaches writing to people from all walks of life. She lives in Lancaster County, PA, with her husband and four sons.