Art Gephyr

The First of My Generation

The first of my generation,
and not even the oldest,
was called away.

Consensus claims there must be a reason,
some lesson to be learned,
a medical rationalization to be constructed,
as I listen through the distance.
Speakers, overworn, overused,
reiterate moral indoctrinations,
as I regard my own broken microphone
with soldered wires exposed.

Wires of communication
that connect endless tangled
alleys through a family village
lined by old foot-warn marble,
so slippery to the step.
Slippery... and unforgiving.
(But bloody knees do not scare the youth!)
The elders warn, it always comes back,
back to history, and no one ever forgets
a single misstep, as even a foot
trenches veined marble.

And her veins were full
of chemicals.
drowning in chemicals.
Once chemicals of pleasure
so wickedly sweet as to temp
a bargain with death.
Once chemicals for motherhood
and the delayed desire for children
injected, over and over.
Now chemicals of pain
that failed to win the last
hope for life.

As feet continue,
it's easy to muse
over winding paths,
sudden disconnections,
as we run our hands
momentarily upon
the cold-white marble walls
of a new tomb.
Some of us even
try to content ourselves
with reason.