Midwife
She holds the mirror to my lips: thin breath
Confirms I’m still alive. But still, it’s time.
My rings she slips off first, symbolic death
Of love’s earth ancestry. Then clothes, poor mime,
Thin skin and bones’ old structures shedding touch.
She tugs from brain cells pressed-flower scents, long past
Their sweet stage. Deaf to death, my ears still clutch
Sung music I once wrote. But no forms last,
Eyes blind with clearer vision. Out she pours
Life’s box of paradox: doubt’s faith, love’s hate,
Virtue’s redemption, history’s settled scores.
Will’s exiled shadow, clarified through fate,
Just flashed past “me.” Soul sloughs this universe,
My spirit kissing Death goodbye. Good nurse.
Beth Houston has taught writing at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies (Rhizome Press). http://www.bethhouston.com
Amethyst Review 