In Articulo Mortis

1

The enemy descends through the trees and rises through water. The spring winds ripple the lake—opening salvos in the war against winter. The pulse slows. The hours open.

Soon you will be presented with the enemy’s demands. Soon there will be a journey through a dark forest—every story you have been told of such journeys represents this one.

Strength needs weakness. That is the story of salvation, as well as the story of every depravity. Kids, hold hands. We’re going to outdo ourselves this time.

You are as delicate as a dried leaf in the hand, and as ready for fire.

The orchard is overgrown, the fence rails splitting at the yard edge, moss taking hold of the shingles. Painted gnomes portend in the garden, axes on shoulders, eyes weird among the early blossoms.

Love is the serpent’s breath. The bottom of the window box has collapsed, roots desiccated and dangling. The lab reports don’t mention it, but you disappear behind rows of numbers and take nothing from this great labor that you can carry in your hand.

The enemy makes you lie down beside still waters. The enemy makes his face to shine upon you. Love is the whispering in adjoining rooms.

3

Love is the whispering in adjoining rooms, but the enemy won’t play children’s games: You say, My nose. My eyes.My mouth, and touch them in turn. The enemy says, Your corpse

and touches it once. Your wit won’t save you now. Nor has faith healed you. Nor will this matter again except to these few.

There could have been less suffering, said the doctor. I’ve rarely seen worsebecause of the situation with the spine. But it could be worse. I inexplicably pity him as he tells me how.

The enemy is not uninterested in your moral understanding—but many things beside it pass through his vision. And this although he knows your body like a lover. And this although he has kept you in the light.

By toil and grief, you will secure your bread. The bologna you’ll have to pick up at Pathmark. You see that the patient is not without humor. After losing seventy-five pounds he orders a T-shirt

that says Ask me about my diet plan. The enemy has sharpened

his knives. He is intentionally vague. Or perhaps it is not intentional and he is preternaturally calm. He’s willing to wait

for you to grow less panicked. You could mistake such patience for indifference. Frantic efforts have been made. And careful preparations. But finally it’s all just crashing through branches at midnight.

The enemy may not come until you call him friend.

4

You should notice fewer things and dwell on larger themes— were you to think on them, you would be undone by questions of scale.

The massive meaning of one ragged fingernail, a spoon leaning in an empty bowl beside a full glass of water.

5

The patient is in extremis. We move through his death, inhale it on waking. The enemy will not pass on information.

You know too much already. There does not seem at first to be continuity. But the indignities accumulate according to a discernible logic. Some of this is understood by medical science,

some muttered about in the conclaves, some intuited when the breeze shifts or when light falls a certain way through the closed blinds of a dark room.

One morning, something we’ve never seen before: five elk at the pond, two of them wading among the cattails. Their breath steams as they raise their heads.

It is impossible to die at home, or within any concept. The nerves are stripped, and then the bones. There aren’t stages to grief.

To be cruel, one must be capable of mercy. So the enemy is not cruel. But finally the enemy shows mercy, and is therein cruel.

6

The currant bushes have spread by the porch. Such bitter berries. Black landscaping plastic is exposed in places washed out by two winters of neglect and of...