(Marc Chagall, Bride with a Fan)
Dissolver of sugar, dissolve me, if this is the time.
Do it gently with a touch of a hand, or a look.
Every morning I wait at dawn.
That's when it's happened before.
Or do it suddenly like an execution.
How else can I get ready for death?
You breathe without a body like a spark.
You grieve, and I begin to feel lighter.
You keep me away with your arm,
but the keeping away is pulling me in.