Living Will

Ellyn Lichvar

There is a time for washing
someone else’s hair
and there is a time
for spoon feeding.
An egg is set to boil.
Morning light, potential.
Weight of the hours ahead
settling in. A full schedule.
Reminders set for what to feel
and when, when to have a break.
Pencil in your name. Pencil in
a mealtime. AM pills for sleeping,
PM pills for waking and this
is what causes one to take up
smoking. Busy the hands steady.
Take a pill to quit.
Tell everyone to visit more,
that they could visit more.
Somewhere, the smell
begins to change—life’s rot,
maybe, the scent of will
leaving the skin. Hair too thin
to hold anything in.
Run the egg beneath cool water
and tap to crack its surface.
Firmness and give. What one
could do, but doesn’t.
Could have taken the ferris wheel
to the top, could have learned
to dance, to properly dance.
How many clocks are in this house
and how long have they been set?
Whisper baby, baby and pat the hair.
Think about the last man inside you,
how many seconds passed
between his heartbeats.
Teeth into the white flesh
and the realization that you are
hurdling through space.
That you have been and will be.
Ashes pressed into a diamond.
Take your hands, skin like parchment
dampened in a storm, and touch
my face here, where it has gone cold.
I’ll take your heat and you tell me
what it feels like to be almost done.