Waiting To Board

To exit. To slip out of this body fraught 
With lightning, vessel of storms –
I've finally got my ticket. A decade of sighs I've 
Condensed and pressed to a stub as dumb as I 
Aspire to be. 

I have been sentenced to life. The veins within 
Me have become violent, revolting against their 
Redness, piercing the barrier. 
Up and over the freshly torn trench, they 
Paint me in poppies. 

Their trusted gush gives me nothing but a pair 
Of slacks in the trash. But here you are, 
Alabaster attendant, on this foamy port, 
Platform of chokes, with your queer ear cupped 
And attentive just as I'm to go. 

I do not want my luggage, the misshapen 
Mountain of trunks, sizzling and screaming with 
Their hoods rotted nearly to fizz. Who would 
Wish to keep such a tumor of boxes, a wildly 
Unpredictable hump of the back. 

The flesh of memory cannot possibly squeeze 
Inside whatever this is –
That's the point, is it not? To molt with finality, 
To willingly gift my wasted breath to the 
Infinitely dense and infinitely needy curtain as it 
Swings to shut all eyes. 

I'll call it a loophole for the time being, even 
With air this thick, space invaded by the 
Spewed fumes of the sacks. They drip from my 
Limbs, abominable fruit, stalactites of 
Somethings that cling with sour avidity. 
The palls have always hung and eddied round 
My sort of life. 

Plane of ivory, ship of silence, great bird or 
Grave train or gust of black wind, I've no 
Concern of which face it forms. 
Richly disposed, I have been waiting to board, 
To shake free the malodorous cases, tongue 
Dry, and slide, wholly and compliantly, 
Into stillness.