HI DEATH It may come to me like a telegram, only a few words, terse, impossible to ignore. Or it may be seductive, wooing me (are people wooed anymore?) and knowing how my flesh is weak, I’ll give in. Maybe it will come like a plane’s shadow over our house. It only takes a second. My grandfather died that way, crossing a street. It may come like that picture of Jesus knocking on our heart’s door, half god, half salesman. I can choose to not be home—or can I? One day I may welcome it, however it comes, body, spirit, used up, ready to leave, holding a blanket before letting it go. Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of thirty-three chapbooks and fifteen full-length collections. Recent boo ks include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), At The Window, Silence (Fernwood Press) and It Gets Dark So Soon Now (Broken Tribe Press). His work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.
Like the title says.