Andrew Frisardi Death of a Dissembler
When I, as we say, died,
my exit was bone-slow.
I hovered at my bedside
and felt the wind blow.I felt the wind although
the hospital door was shut.
I didn't want to go.
My fear congealed a cut:a cut like the tapered crack
of a door off its jamb.
And now, the air is black,
I don't know where I am.I don't know if I'm back
at supper with my wife,
like a hypochondriac
convinced he has lost his life,or in my old back yard,
with my kids raking leaves.
Life itself is the best canard
of all that life conceives.