Sleeping within miles of where dad’s soul slipped away on HWY 43
Makes me wonder
Just how does a spirit exit it’s fleshy home?
Does it exit stubbornly
Clawing with silvery tendrils to ribcage and bone
Or is it squeezed out like toothpaste
From a phantom umbilicus?
Perhaps some rise effortlessly like the ethereal yeasty force of leavened bread,
Opened and warmed as it meets it’s new infinite ceiling.
Or maybe it’s more appropriately clumsy
As on the other end of the lifeline
When gravity plays drunken puppeteer on fragile new limbs.
Frayed and jagged threads of soul catching on knee cap,
Or tangled in ceiling fans and riding out eternity
On a dizzy blade.
And if one should be so nimble that it escapes fascia and grey matter,
Grey paint and plaster
Could it still find itself, like I do during flying dreams,
Thrashed and bound by the gnarled limbs of trees?
Or is it quieter than all this,
That flesh tied to spirit knows no separation,
And eternity lives out it’s exhale with cell and soul embraced?
Or is it simply
That the settling of bones
After car has crushed
Heart has ceased
Is just so full of it’s own emptiness
That we mistake this new vacancy
And it’s foreign void
For a soul.
And we name it animate it call for it
So our own void has a place to go.