The Morning of My Death
Jacob Eigen

If all goes well, that is, as long as war or peace
or any such absurdity
has not already killed me, I'll get up early,
walk atop the scratchy carpet
to the bathroom, kneel above the basin barefoot,
maybe bald. Nothing too
irregular: the electric toothbrush's sudden hum
will not disturb me any more
than the stillness that precedes it, and the flock
of flaming butterflies which enter
through the blinds will hardly singe my whitewashed hands.
From there it should be easy:
I'll fill the sink, reach past my ribs, and grab my soul
in handfuls-pour all of that dry sand
into the lukewarm pool, and above the water's film,
ripples may expand.

© Jacob Eigen