It’s not that thoughts of being dead alarm 
me—but that berries bloom along my arms, 
created by the slightest touch of rose’s thorn; 
while holding hands today, my firstborn’s firstborn, 
uncertain, eyed those little scarlet lakes 
like snakes. 

It’s not a terror of the Styx that chills—it’s the steep 
terrain above that shore and not its deep 
and dreamy water, just the certain sliding 
away into it. My nights are spent abiding 

close to home, the car, and not for dread of falling 
into dark, but simply falling—completely galling 
to think I’ll never try the platform heels 
again, or bicycles. One so often feels 
like ancient sofas, insides leaking outside, 
curbside. 

Not hellfire that I fear, but joking, here: 
the blasphemies of bladder making cheer, 
guffaws displacing sex (and even talk 
of sex) but not the longing. So I balk. 

I do not fear the gloomy silence of the tomb 
(believe my lie), but only shadows—the bloom 
of deep cyan that creeps from fingers, toes, 
the final indigo of lips and nose, 
and oh, by the way, the sparse and silver hair 
down there. 

Diane Lee Moomey

is a painter and poet living in Half Moon Bay, California, where she is co-host of the monthly Coastside Poetry. Her work has appeared in Light, THINK, PoetryMagazine.com, Mezzo Cammin, Caesura, and others. She has won prizes for her sonnets in the Ina Coolbrith Circle and in the Soul Making Keats Literary Contests.

Author’s website: https://dianeleemoomeyart.com/art-portal

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ Three Poems in Peacock Journal (28 April 2017)