This is the Day I Die
A Song of Contemplation
This is the day I die, I die,
this day like no other day,
and every day yet to come,
these words make me dumb.
This is the day I trick
the material and slip
to ethereal, I pass through
the floor into the wilderness,
blink of the sky,
leaf on the wind,
light in the sea, that was me,
passing from remembrance
to forgotten, exquisite and rotten.
This is the day I rise,
from grass to skies, wet earth
and mud and soil of blood,
skin of bark and eyes of stone,
I come from bone, I rise from fire,
I dine atop my funeral pyre.
This is the day I go for broke,
from broken and street, gutter
and meat, whisper of smoke,
sounds awoke, this is the day
I see in the dark,
scratch of walk, struggle of breath,
seeking a glint on a monolith.
This is the day of pushing down
walls and floors and city and town,
grey of bone and ash of spit,
rotten flowers in pungent room,
sea foam and sand, this is my hand,
this is my face in a drowning land,
climbing with words and ending in grace,
in silent stillness I restless wake.
Rust of pipe and termite wood,
I would be you if I could.
This is the day I cease to blow,
this is the way I turn and go,
one flight up and three below,
here is rain and
here is snow.
A picture frame off-center there,
something tangled in my hair,
dirty rug and creaking door,
I hear us as we shout for more.
This is the day I dive to sleep,
under razors, my soul to keep,
raise my head, plant my feet,
my back is sore, throat is dry,
birds are falling from the sky,
every day is rain and storm,
every drop and every flash
is me and you and every blink
of every eye, eternal stink.
This is the day I part from sense,
goodbye to past and future tense,
this day like no other day
and as all other days before,
close the windows and shut the door,
swim in darkness and fall in light,
give up fighting, give up rest,
give up passing every test.
This is the day I die for love,
so below and so above.
Granite, flame, and wind and sea,
at peace beneath a Chinese tree,
take these things away from me,
this is the way I have to go,
in the silence, you will know.
If you find me, do not speak.
Fractured feather, broken beak.
This is the day I die, I die,
here a map and here the sky,
this is the road to wake, to pray,
this is birth from death, they say.
This is the day and this is the day
and this is the day and this.
––New Orleans, 2021
Steve Spehar
