Requiem

It’s not yet time for the funeral. You’re just thinking
ahead, the way you always do, practicing your part
in every play that opens in your personal theater—

graduations, weddings, even your own birth. Well,
you did say, once, you dreamt of being born, sailing
through a gap in the reefs. Are you dreaming now,

navigating rough seas, steering clear of shoals?
Or is it imagination, visualization, or perhaps memory?
They all show up for rehearsals. You should thank them.

Together, they delivered your breakthroughs—discovering
words, playing catch, riding a bike. Learning to sail, finding
love, growing old, being left behind. The scenes of your life

on stage and screen. All appeared first in your head,
then the world. For a time, your invincibility purchased
all the swagger you could carry. You refused to think

about death, that distant star. But now it rises in your sky
and hangs closer, like the moon, not dead ahead
but a few points off the starboard bow.

You begin to make your songs.

       from Geography of One