Poem by Jane Glasser
I think Death must be quite handsome, blue-eyed, formal as Leonard Cohen in his black suit and black fedora. Why else would despairing women be so easily seduced? Indiscriminate, he courts all sexes, all races, all ages, innocent and devilish, church-goers and atheists, impecunious and rich. All aboard! he calls as his train shudders, smokes, then races down a mountain’s iced decline. Nightly in taverns, Death boasts he’s inscrutable. He may come like a whisper while you peacefully sleep, but if it’s catastrophe he fancies, he’ll steer your sedan into a head-on collision, or place a loaded gun in your mouth. Oh, Death loves explosions, accidents, a heart-breaking climax: your son floating face-down in your backyard pool; caught out in a thunderstorm, your father’s electrocution by lightning. At times compassionate, he’ll authorize euthanasia’s ride on Charon’s boat. Packed churches with choirs and organs are his weakness. He loves to disguise himself at wakes or while sitting shiva as mourners dry their eyes with liquor and scurrilous rumors. But his favorite settings are the hullabaloo at the lawyer’s office after the reading of the will, and the widow’s bedroom, the tear-stained pillows on the suddenly too-large bed.
Jane Ellen Glasser, a celebrated poet, has graced the pages of esteemed journals like The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Georgia Review. Her remarkable talent has earned her accolades, including the Tampa Prize for Poetry. With nine published collections, Glasser’s evocative verses touch hearts and illuminate the human experience.
