Classic Poem

“I carry my death within me.”
Who was it said that?—Saint-Denys-Garneau?
It's true. Everyone—free
Or enslaved, Christian or Jew,
Coloured or white, believer or
Sceptic or the indifferent worldling—
Knows death, at least as metaphor.
But this says more. My death is a thing—
Physical, solid, sensuous, a seed
Lodged like Original Sin
In the essence of being, a need
Also, a felt want within.

It lies dormant at first—
Lazy, a little romantic
In childhood, later a thirst
For what is no longer exotic.
It lives on its own phlegm,
And grows stronger as I grow stronger,
As a flower grows with its stem.

I am the food of its hunger.
It enlivens my darkness,
Progressively illuminating
What I know for the first time, yes,
Is what I've been always wanting.