When Death come to town she claimed
our flesh by selling us dust; whiter
than pale as the twilight her poisonous kiss
of nuclear mushrooms and alpha-decay.
When Death came to knock on our door
a morning in May, luminescence was dark,
but she promised us blessing of bones,
and gifted us green-glow of scientific relief.
When Death showed us her face, unveiled
for the first time we saw as if mirrored — our
selves, we saw in her face the pockmarks,
pus and blood on our pillows, the liquid in lungs.
When Death had left us alone, we waited
decaying, pale in half-life of matters, choked
by the ghost of the nooses she’d tied;
smothered in soil we opened our graves.