Composure

Out of every wound, there is possibility.
Beyond that
Death is the gift that keeps giving,
what I mean is,
inheritance,
legend,
a test.

The family sleeps,
as the dead do,
while the cherry blossoms
plan their next attack,
on Japan,

I am only a granddaughter
who knows what
death looks like on TV,
between people
I don't know.
If I marry a politician,
maybe this will change.
A doctor too.

Eating time
with my grandmother's
teeth, I will listen for the
wind tunnels in her heart
as they collapse on
the tiny cars passing though,
but it won't
...be...like...that.

It will be just like it is now.
A few odd words about composure.
the waiting rattlesnake
between the sheets.