If You Knew by Ellen Bass
What if you knew you'd be the last to touch someone? If you were taking tickets, for example, at the theatre, tearing them, giving back the ragged stubs, you might take care to touch that palm, brush your fingertips, along the life line's crease. When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase too slowly through the airport, when the car in front of me doesn't signal, when the clerk of the pharmacy won't say Thank You, I don't remember they're all going to die. A friend told me she'd been with her aunt. They'd just had lunch and the waiter, a young gay man with plumb black eyes, joked as he served the coffee, kissed her aunt's powdered cheek when they left. Then they walked half a block and her aunt dropped dead on the sidewalk. How close does the dragon's spume have to come? How wide does the crack in heaven have to split? What would people look like if we could see them as they are, soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time?
