exhale and night comes.

(Dreaming Tree by Christian Schloe)

When I died I twisted and turned deep into the earth where I belonged,

a topsy-turvy dance of the dead among rubble and missing bottle caps.

It was nothing like I’d dreamt, that slide ride into glistening depths,

feet first not face first like I’d seen behind eyelids.

I learned we jump into these things, not belly flop like children in summer.

It’s easy, no matter the circumstances.

Breathe once,

breathe deep,

exhale and night comes.

It’s the most beautiful solar eclipse; it’s numbing, cleansing silence.

It’s the ocean floor, the high-pitched ringing of nothingness,

the deepest sleep, cleansed palate,

only stars.

I writhed when I reached the end,

reached out a hand,

pleaded for a push.

I’d grown tired of watching the world turn

when I was already halfway to the other side.

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