Possum

Let’s play possum.
Let’s see who can act dead the most.

Stand in the street with earphones hanging down,
Resist the music in your bones. Resist the urge

To greet anybody. Enter your house and let them
Ponder the weight of silence and the difference

When you step into it. Last morning, I woke up
Before the alarm but I did not unstill the bed,

I heard it ring out and I did not snooze it either.
There is something about pretending not to be here,

The neighbours start believing it, yet my mother
Never does. She calls all the time and the voicemail falters.

This charade is easy if you have died before
In the body of a loved one or the memories of friends,

If you know that death is hourly and gradual
Like a snail, it drags along the foot of the hill,

A slow, wet French kiss. Bro, death is sensual
And slow, like the perfect tightest orgasm.

It is a one-time superpower. So, it does not matter
If one plays dead or plays God. It does not matter if one

Lies on the carpet, in the casket, or in the winter mouth
Of a morgue, everyone is going to die in the end.