Death Pastoral
       

Sometimes, naked, I don't feel naked.
Sometimes I feel naked when clothed.
What if all our incredible futures
are still just bound for misery?
A thing breaks, and we are on fire with rage.
Was it supposed to enjoy eternity, like us?
Before Trojans were mascots or condoms,
they were warriors. Before non-sequiturs
were digressions, they were songs.
The universe is an echo chamber of discordant matter.
Heaven is a fraudulent quorum of marooned demigods.
I am detached from narrative, history, identity:
whip out a dictionary and tell me what that means.
On the days the stars conspire against me,
I will conquer and overcome my ugliness.
Today, I saw the sun rise into a bank of clouds.
I want to be strong, and I want also to not have to be strong.
I left the windows open. Is it raining now?
The shadow is a mouth that baptizes.
The shadow is a lover who won't call.
You die and die and die then live.
I think of the small white moths orbiting the garden.
Because they are beautiful, because they barely exist at all.

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Copyright © 2021 Virginia Konchan All rights reserved
from Bennington Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission