No.7

She lay herself down
naked back to the bed
one hand on her belly
the other on her heart.
It was busy organizing her blood
servicing every little piece
and
every last part
except for the state of her mind
which may have needed more than simple circulation
just this once.
She felt something burn there
a hot sloshing, pulsing,
just beneath the skin
inperfect synchronization with her brain
it confirmed her restless suspicions;
She was troubled as the waters of a liquid hell.
.
Her dying thought to the day
head left discarded and adequately oxygenated
on a reasonably soft pillow that night
was hard to discern, for sure.
However
we do have an idea
thanks to the nature of it's origins.
thanks to the nature of the ingested migraine
the gurgling circulation of nutrients
the stretching
the pressure, beyond imagination
(to understate, for the sake of clarity,
like a hand, pressed on her belly
and another to her heart)
even the bed itself
and the dreams she had of her own childhood
of a white dress
and a little white hat
memories of a cathedral
just big enough to hold a god
a cathedral who's sanctuary she never learned to appreciate much at the time
and would never experience again, I suppose
you know how children are.
not even in her new black dress
let alone any sort of hat.
so
if thoughts made small noises
instead of water and salt
and the living and the living had any sympathy to spare for the dead
that last thought
might have sounded something like this:

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine
you lucky bastards
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine"