Shadow
I wonder where shadows go when people die–
Do they ascend like souls to heaven
and wait their turn to be sent down again
To loyally follow a new owner around like a lolling puppy
A life of service without so much as a petting or a bone,
growing by day, crouching under the cover of feet at midday
shedding its thin cloak by late afternoon, and just retiring
until the next day, unless the owner is nocturnal,
aroused under streetlights, frequents low-lit bars
and it makes a walk-on, guest appearance
on tenement walls, grungy alleyways,
bouncing across the room like a bendy acrobat
cast by a bedside lamp, just in time to steal the show–
Shadows, after all, have their own allure
their aesthetic so cinematic
until the last candle on the altar is put out
and they descend into the abyss, that starless
realm where all good shadows
eventually go to take their bow
.
Death Wish
I hope when I go, the morticians avoid giving me a makeover
Frankly, I would object to the fakery
I don’t want them to be gussied up with lipstick or powder
Let my cheeks remain sunken, wrinkles showing, forehead stay creased
Let those who want to peek in, see me for who I am
Authentic and without selfie-ready cosmetics
I am resigned to the way I look
My rough-hewn, scrunched-up face is a rock-climber’s nightmare
My nose is a lovechild between a cauliflower and a ginger root, past their sell-by dates
My crooked teeth are a pile-up of white, and not so white, Fiats on the Federal Highway
Leave me open-mouthed for the morbid, drive-by mourners to gasp,
unable to resist whispering to each other, indignantly:
“They should have shut it!”
Certainly not!
Even in death, I want my pouty, petulant pie-hole wide open
Just in case, I choose to get up and read a poem at my own funeral
Or object to the gushing, over-complimentary, ChatGPT-assisted eulogies
Or just to leave a loud sigh, or sarcastic snort, or yell,
“Aha, so that’s what you look like, god!”, at the end
It might lift a few spirits
Also, leave my eyes wide open
So I can check myself in the mirror
On the way to heaven
I want to be seen as woke
when I question St Peter over his cock-
crowing denials
© Julian Matthews
Julian Matthews is a mixed-race poet from Malaysia, published in The American Journal of Poetry, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, and Borderless Journal, among others. He stumbled onto poetry by accident six years ago at a writing workshop. That happy accident has turned into a rabid compulsion. He is still extricating himself from the crash. If you wish to support his recovery, Paypal him at trinetizen@gmail.com or send Wordle answers via http://linktr.ee/julianmatthews
The Loch Raven Review 