machine

All my fears –

death, destruction, disease –

breed curiosity.

I want to dismantle them,

like a ghostly machine.

They grip me, electricity

hungry for metal.

There is no way

I want to die,

but there are many

at the bottom of my list.

Prions, an aneurysm,

a plane crash, a plague.

I’ve seen enough to be afraid

of high winds and mad foxes.

And yet, I find myself staring

at a tapeworm in a jar,

wishing I could see it in life,

the way it burrows and twists.

I find myself at the wrist

of the sick, feeling the tempo

of their decline. I read the news

every time a jet explodes.

I simply have to know

what orchestrates our sorrows,

our terror, our pain. And maybe

when my time comes,

it won’t seem so foreign,

so strange.