Procession in Fog, by Ernst Ferdinand Oehme (Germany). 1828.

Squeezed out by the heavy feet
of mourners, an unearthly fog
rises from hell. Day after day, the dead
pass my door, followed like a shadow
by those who can still pray or dig.

I think I see Mother,
and she’s been gone ten years.

Death, like a new pastor, busily
makes the rounds to every household
before winter.

I have nothing more to say to God
for myself, but ask mercy for parents
who plead, Please, Lord, please.
Take me instead.

    
Vanitas Still Life attributed to Sebastien Bonnecroy, 1662

Opposites attract, so Life
stays locked in its ill-fated
dance with Death. He leads
deftly, gentle hand on the small
of your back. Soon you trust
his dips, his lifts. He swings
you into the spotlight, lets you
collect your handful of applause.
Reels you back in for a sensual
slow dance you hope will last
forever even as the fiddler’s bow

clatters to the floor.

Chinese Proverb

Before showing us any moves,
our tai chi instructor lectures
for forty-five minutes. Good chi enter
head. Bad chi leave through feet.
 
I grow stiff on philosophy, but perk
up with his warning that cats steal
our chi. It’s especially dangerous
when they sleep on our pillows –

no wonder I’m too tired to concentrate.
Cats are hotter than humans,
and apparently I am the power outlet
for three purring radiators, twelve feet

to clean of negative energy as they stomp
around my lap. I’d welcome a sunny
windowsill about now. Picture my three
cats awaiting my return. I’m ready

to copy their Zen state. Finally!
We are invited to stand, raise our arms
overhead, and sink our chi. I look around
at clumsy humans. No one stretches

with feline elegance. No one can leap
six times his height. I’m dropping
this class and going home to study
the real masters.