death doesn't come like a
thunderbolt to children. death is
a whisper, surreptitiously stolen from the
shadowed face of an adult
who doesn't want you to be
afraid.

that murmur sinks like a fly
trapped in honey, lethargic,
struggling to the center until
you know what it is, this terrible
thing that you couldn't know
until now.

until you've heard it. Not
seen it perhaps, but heard its
quiet wingbeat, no angel but
a butterfly of death. A contrary
creature who could never find us
and yet someday had to find us.
because life asks for death,
just like a child asks to
grow up.