I have seen the spectre of death,
he accompanies me on my walks.
He dos not speak to me
but pads silently by my side
walking these city streets.
An ever-present, silent companion
so close I could almost touch his hand
or reach up to trace the contour
of his cheeks, place a finger on his lips,
draw his inscrutable face down toward mine.

When he opens his hand, palm up,
I can see it is made of flesh and bone.
Then he says my name, once or twice,
whispers it into my inner ear
so that it echoes there, like the sea’s song
of wave on wave on wave,
repeating a rhythm of birth and joy,
sorrow and parting.
Our lives lived beside
this spectre of death
the way waves fall back from the shore,
rise and come lapping at our feet….
Until we vanish—self, poem, spectre—
while these words drum over and over
inside my skull,
as we gather the night
into our sleeping arms.

Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com, 2004