It
sickles out a living
when
you're not looking,
takes
a piece of you,
leaves
a part of it
on
you, in certain scars,
you
can never shake.
Sometimes
it's something
you
hope you'll get
to
sleep through,
like
when the babies
finally
keep bellies
full
enough
for
you to miss midnight--
your
circadian rhythm,
undisrupted.
But
even though
you
think
you're
ready,
you're
not yet ready-ready,
and
tend to say,
it's
coming, one day,
coming—
though
you know enough
to
know
it's
already here.
©
2015 Jennifer Wagner
Title
spun from Emily Dickinson's “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.”