Mourners sooth themselves
saying ‘she looks like she is asleep,’
as if sleep were some metaphor
for death. Oh, she is resting. Biding
her time. She will wake with the Lord.
Sleep is not like death.
It has nothing in common with such
morbid permanency. It does not drag you
under like a drowning victim, or force you
into a deep dark hole. It opens a door
and holds that door. As if it were a gentleman,
and you were a lady. And like a lady, you
thank sleep. You walk through the door,
and close it. And you dream.