The prompt for day three at NaPoWriMo asked poets to “write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell.” It was an interesting process. I’ve revised it a dozen times, and it may see some revision yet (no piece is ever entirely finished!). It feels like a hopeful piece to me, if not a bit unrealistic. Maybe it is in hope’s nature to grasp at straws?
A prayer for Earth
I will die on the high plains of central Montana
when lightning strikes my sternum.
Jolting me rigid
its power will transform my energy
into dancing molecules
that will never think of me again.
Perhaps one day they will bounce their way to Bahrain
joining millions of misplaced molecules
set free before mine.
Together, let them rise into something other
something that will shift equilibrium,
and appease our quaking mother.
Thank you to Writer's Island for providing a place to post every day this month, and always on Saturdays.