Their Whole-Selves

Humans create art in awareness of death,
so she said and so it was. An act of
desperation to remain, be remembered,
exist outside our world, artists all.
We write the brush strokes of our lives,
individual moments, memorable.
A century, decades less perhaps, is given
to each, gifted only , but she continues to quote
Bishop, and Keats, move forward.

She’s wrapped up in the Holocaust,
Jew teeth and fallen historical societies;
while I wait here with contemporary novels,
the FX channel and broken families.
Small and judgmental is my life
to her beliefs, her darkness.
She is a poetry momma pushing for wisdom.
There is no good way to do things sometimes.
Organization waits for poetics, and lesbian
code-writing. I care for death, and
wait for art.