Don’t be afraid, friend: it’s just my soul.
Take it–all of it! Have a great feast.
I’ve lived as a ghost with you and your brothers
while you’ve given just a ghost of your own soul.
But now, have mine. And every piece of it!
The mirror-shaped hard candies from third grade.
The girl pushing me on the tire swing after school.
The tears that fell when I sang out to Mary,
alone in the monastic orchards of Vina.
Savor it. Devour it.
For I already gave it in life.
So to see you take it in death is my honor,
to eagerly receive powerlessness as a lesson
I will never be able to reflect on again.
So take that thought, that trust, and that face:
eyes, letting go of judgment and suspicion,
mouth, silent to food and laughter,
hands, cold to gentleness and limp to friendship.
Take all that I ever was. Please, take it now.
Look into me while I live,
though my days are emptying out,
and see that my life has been little,
and that it accomplished even less.
We’ve seen more than words can ever tell.
So take me, and know–
that I am finally happy to die in you.
I could never grip. I could never hold.
All sweetness I’ve felt as a creature
is now a grain of sand on a beach,
dust that was bound by the ocean,
loosened, and washed over.
(c) 2016 Emma Gabriel