Patrick Lane

Death is in us, it’s how

we’re born, he said.

The foundling’s silken head

hardened to a bone helmet.


Even the glorious blue

of a Morpho butterfly

held death’s bright glaze—

Momento mori.


Old Yorick was young once,

his unearthed skull fused

from solar ovum

and infinite jest.


The antic flesh

will fracture;

each fragile birth

a wreckage.


Every small salt sea

turns septic, the unborn

cast out, pariah torn

free on a skeleton shore.


Note – italicized portions are from Lane’s “The Last Days of My Mother.”

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