I knew it would take hours hanging

there, knew it meant taking up a cup

heavy with that task, slowly, and without

help. I knew, also, I’d taste my blood

—known since I was a boy, after

hitting my thumb with a misplaced stoke

as I tailored, with detail, the armoire or

chest of drawers. Place here, a voice said,

the garments of your dying. Place here all

the little echo chambers of the heart. Surely

my father will not let me suffer like this, so

broken, so very left here like a door half

open—help me go through the door, father.

You said you would prepare me for this.

It closes without a single breath or moment

of exaltation. Tell me where my eternity is

I’ll go there without asking about the pain.