All my life I was a bride married to amazement

When death comes, final and novel—

the trick cul-de-sac or burst dam, a door

that opening erases or shutting disappears—

I want to watch the filmstrip once more.

I want to see the caterpillar, his whole body

a fat neck, rolling hills and horripilation.

I want to remember how, every time

he dropped from some leaf to my arm,

we appalled each other. I want to remember

how, every time, astonishment

made us the same.

When death comes, I want to watch,

reel-to-reel, my unrealized fears

yielding to what I never thought to dread:

meningitis, oily rags.

I want to flip back to the times

my name came up lucky

in the raffle of who-gets-to-see-herons.

All my life I was a bride married to amazement: 

every sickness an affront, every peach

a geode. All my life: bowled over by every hell—

fresh, stale, it didn’t matter—

and all my life blown about, a feather

on the breath of God.

When it is over, I want to say: it was a requited love.

But probably, even then, I will not know

whether I have passed my life as surprise’s adept

or her dupe.

Probably, even then, I will only

be sure of  falling asleep

beside my strange bedfellow, strange.