Maybe we wander the soundless antechambers

by DIANE SEUSS

 

Maybe we wander the soundless antechambers, halls

and gateways, rustling scapular and underskirt, slight

swinging of the cross on its cord makes a sound like

a bottle fly. Angular shadows, stories-tall, color

of Mourvèdre grapes, purple-black with a yeasty haze.

Maybe—can it be? Death is a nunnery? Six lines and sick

already of this allegory. Looking for a non-fussy definition

of the Sublime. Something I can really sink my teeth into

like the tough meat of an animal, the last of its kind. Or

spinning the wool of a black sheep, all the while telling

myself the story of myself. Nurse says the membrane

between life and death will thin like the effacement

of the cervix. I remember begging to die when I gave

birth and begging to be born when I was dying.