| Two
Poems Khrynn Yvonne McManus |
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Certain Interims It occurs between three and four a.m., more precise than Greenwich mean, an empyrean chronometer, a sneak preview. I almost do not find it frightening anymore. It can not fool me; I know it is a funeral. I am so good at expecting it now. I could use Fibonacci to tally it up. I could do its sum on an abacus. It is an abecedarium mathematics; it is not a science. I know how to watch for signs. Thomas Hardy, in Tess of the D'Urbervilles, gave the poor milkmaid |
the idea of her death; he made her see it in her mirror, like Elaine spotting Lancelot, miniature and upside down, a mirage in the shield-that-was-not-a-shield. He said each of us feels the hour of his demise, an instinct, an itch in the glial cells, a predestination, that we celebrate this date unwittingly, a secret subconscious birthday ***
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