by Carrie Penrod

Is that what death is? 

 

Soft, bubbles clinging

to the side of a pop-bottle, 

straining to stick,

only releasing to buoy up 

to be pulled into a canyon

of other bubbles.

 

Is that what death is? 

 

A bottle of bubbles. Don’t blow 

them in the house, take them out

to the swing, let the wind 

carry them home again, 

some popping before they leave

the pink pockmarked wand. 

 

Is that what death is? 

 

Champagne exploding 

from its narrow neck, 

half the bottle gone before

the first flute is full, fizzing,

laughing, flutes raised 

in a celebratory huzzah, 

more bubbles than anyone knows

what to do with, they tickle 

on the way down. 

 

Is that what death is?