151. PILOT

Still lay the
body,
blood
sprayed upon the ashen
cheeks,

blue uniform
specked
with
white
          debris.

Laying on the
tilèd
       floor
of what was once
the second
bathroom.

Gentle
          Face,
do I look upon thee with
sadness?

At one time
still upon the
mantelpiece, yet
full of life,
and yet here,
now in life
and full of
stillness –

You rest in
death so
quiet -

I want to say:
“We are reunited
once more;
how I have waited for
this fateful
day –”

Or should I stand in
silence,
full of pity and
reverence,

or Hate:
shouting “Muori
                         dannato!”,
over a body
             “Muori”
I didn’t
             “Muori”
kill?
             “Muori!”

Oh, as still
in death
as in
life,
the same
coldness and
neglect

I think I might
stay a while,
observing this
strange specimen,
at once so
new and so
familiar –

Except it is
not my house the
plane collided
with, not
my bathroom the
Pilot
died peacefully,
my puzzled eyes
beholding
this face
once more

But here in the
dark, star-lit
museum of the
mind,
the body can
rest,

eternal in its stillness;
quiet in its
permanence.