Let Me Die Writing

Let me die writing, Mother
When you come to take me home
May you find me flowing ink
May you find me impassioned,
with stained fingers and knit brow
Let me die writing.

Let me die in my natural state, Mother,
Writing into vast gulfs
Let me drown in liquid pleasure
of line and word and delicious sentence
Let me spend my last moments
licking sticky poems from my fingertips
or smearing cake
battered memoir across a blank page
Let me die writing.

Let me die inside the pleasure of writing, Mother
Your Mother alone knows
why you brought me here, Mother,
surely not for any greatness but
to follow the unravellings of spools
of swift-colored yarn, soft, mine,
following it in faith and in abandon, Mother,
until the words – and Your Mother alone knows what else —

Let me die here, Mother,
writing into the tangle of these things
I must unbury the words to match.

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