by Sarah Carleton
What if death is just us ready to burst
like a bladder primed after a long road trip
or a bud so packed with sunshine it just has to bloom
and here we are at the end, flush with
all we’ve been given—soft six-pm skies, autumn
yellows, day-long rains, endless plants, oceans of words,
so many birds, so many friends like fireflies pulsing
in a field, and a rich buildup of bliss, and fear too,
oodles of worry, and grief rippling us
wide like a well-stocked pond—so by the time we
cut loose, our fullness is bigger than this planet,
and we scatter our relief among the stars?