All my fears –
death, destruction, disease –
breed curiosity.
I want to dismantle them,
like a ghostly machine.
They grip me, electricity
hungry for metal.
There is no way
I want to die,
but there are many
at the bottom of my list.
Prions, an aneurysm,
a plane crash, a plague.
I’ve seen enough to be afraid
of high winds and mad foxes.
And yet, I find myself staring
at a tapeworm in a jar,
wishing I could see it in life,
the way it burrows and twists.
I find myself at the wrist
of the sick, feeling the tempo
of their decline. I read the news
every time a jet explodes.
I simply have to know
what orchestrates our sorrows,
our terror, our pain. And maybe
when my time comes,
it won’t seem so foreign,
so strange.
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