“This would be a beautiful place to die.”
by Chris Castro-Rappl
It’s not that it wasn’t. Snow had drifted
around our feet, purged muddy footprints
from this gentle desolation. I could
have lain in it without sinking through to dirt,
staring up as my senses blinked out like stars,
one by one in those final moments.
But I couldn’t have told you then
why I chose the words; I was doing what I do
when I can’t sleep, shifting in bed
until the springs complain, the mattress creaks,
invite you to join me in restlessness,
never quite convincing you to wake up.
You looked at me with hazy confusion,
sleepwalked back to your car, not waiting up.
Each of your footprints stayed white for a moment
then filled from beneath with muddy brown
The snow had stopped. I stepped carefully
where you had, enlarging your footprints, pressing
mine to yours so tightly only one trail was made.