by Rose Mary Boehm
1
The first time I met death I didn’t crumble
under its weight. I was very young but recognized
that something important had changed.
I hadn’t known her that well, but she had been
kind, and I would miss her once I understood.
2
They knocked with a big knock. I almost always
feared that knock and disintegrated a little.
Had kids on the roads and would count
their cars in the early morning hours.
They brought me the cat in a shoebox.
3
My feet sank into the soft forest floor,
where fallen tree after fallen tree had rotted
and prepared for rebirth and the magic
of mycelia and mosses. Against the light, I saw
the spores taking off with each step.
4
We went to the angel-maker. Then there was
no other way. It was only midmorning but felt like
an endless night. No moon. Her cry pierced
every woman’s heart, her wounding made |
itself at home in her chest and squeezed.
5
Santa Muerte: Our Lady of The Holy Death.
In Mexico they celebrate the woman who one day
will take you and comfort you forever. She will take
you safely to your afterlife and pay the ferryman.
Give yourself to her embrace and lose all fear.