Aviva Luria

Sleep, Before Death

It was a new ritual
Or one I didn't recognize
Slung over the bar
Like a question mark
You had with you these things:
Columbine, nettles
The world, having lost its sense,
Made up again.
I couldn't have stopped you.
But sometimes, I dream of your body
Loosing itself above the back streets
Catapulted from the top level
Of a parking garage,
Welcoming the onslaught of ground
Welcoming it.
I remember, moments before
Sleep, before death
Your body a brittle vase
Having spilled its sharp flowers,
Its prickly stalks, long before.