^{“Some skeletons belonged to those who did not survive the plague, such as Dickon, who died between 45 and 60 years old. After becoming ill, he likely lived only for two to three days, sheltering at home before succumbing to the Black Death. But those who cared for him made sure he was buried properly in the local church cemetery.” — from the CNN article “‘Bone Biographies’ Reveal What Life Was Like for Black Death Survivors in Medieval England” by Ashley Stricklan and Amy Woodyatt.}

You hear black. It’s sharp
like your once invulnerability.

Your forearm muscles contract
and veins constrict the essential

organs. You feel flight. You are unaware
of comfort and the inevitable

immersing. You want to roll
on your side as your lungs gurgle.

If your mother loves you, she delivers
a note, and had you learned

to read, you could read it. You can’t
stop resisting. You worry

less, then naught. You smell music.
You are unaware of shadows

creeping beneath your skin,
escaping or entering your body

and veins. Everything blurs.
Then you see what you last saw

yesterday evening. I saw a bird
fly. Its beak detached and fell

on my nose. I awoke aware.
If you cannot distinguish

how, a vulnerability arrives
like love and so do you.

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