On the Deaths of March by Mary Bevington

“Birth, life, and death — each took place on the hidden side of a leaf”. ~ Toni Morrison

Three deaths have touched my concentric communities in so many weeks.

One, a man I knew. Two, a man doing a dangerous job I’ve also done. Three, a friend’s friend.

All young-ish, all sudden; all left people, animals, objects.

And as such, or perhaps coincidentally, I’ve felt Saturn’s sorrow, and made a list of how I’d like my death handled.

Our hearts grieve, maybe always. In Tibet it’s said that the wanting, the missing blocks the heart chakra. To free the heart, the soul, the living must let go our dead. We must let them walk on their way, even as we carry them. And we must make these lists, reminders of how we’d like our deaths handled. This way we remember that there will be some end, and there will be something meant by it.

With each new death my cardiac cracks awaken,  and my prose falls to poetry. Here’s the one that came through; a memorial, a letting go.

…Out Like a Lamb

by Mary-Laurence Bevington

March’s lion puts me in mind of the last of winter
+ the pokes of spring’s glistenings.
Still, hinting of winter’s white, ashen sky scape
Still, casting light -

into cracks where my mind’s come undone.
forgetting to care for coins and their brass tacks,
my self vanishing within tea leafs unblossomed,
+ sad tales of two lads dead before their day

+ another, a friend’s friend.

In turn I’ve taken to jazz singers in small cafes,
currency free madness,
+ a garden –
just east of Eden,
gilded, golden
dancing in this morning’s rain.