Death Knows Not of Consent

Death is just a bit too much,

isn't it?

—

Cliché? Overstated? Not the point,

is it?

—

Death weighs heavy on my mind today

as it has done — well — since Covid-19.

Even before that,

there was no escaping it.

—

One of my earliest memories

is of my aunt dying,

then my uncle,

then my grandmother,

then my dear Nonno.

—

It never stops and asks,

"Is it too much?" — does it?

—

It never considers

things like consent.

Things like

the intangible grief

that R.I.P. can cause

when death grips.

—

There was Uncle Giovanni,

and so many others.

—

Between Covid-19 and now,

I have lost many —

so close,

and many more,

not so close.

—

Nonna was the first dagger

to my already wretched heart.

Then came the sword,

twisted around its hilt,

breaking my

rib cage or sternum —

audible crack, unheard,

but in my head,

as loud as the drums,

the chanting,

and

the stomping of the feet.

—

Like so many others —

this grief repeats.

It never ends.

It never asks "Is this okay?"

Then Uncle Claudio

was taken —

ripped from us.

-

Now I’m here —

writing of the fallen,

penning to the living,

finding solace — nowhere,

finding peace — in nothing,

for now.

-

R.I.P. Dad —

a phrase emptied

by repetition.

A platitude

that signifies

everything.

And nothing.

*

Thanks for reading!

Thanks to the encouragement of one Matthew Fromm, I have recorded a reading of this poem for your audible pleasure.

Thanks for listening!

Author's Notes: Back in June, I submitted this piece to The Offing, a literary journal, and today, October 1, I learned it was rejected. They did not offer any explanation, which is fine — that’s often standard. I do wonder, though, if it was perhaps too personal, with too many real-world references. I’m not worried. I stand by the piece and would not change those references; every person, every death, is part of the grief I carry daily.

Receiving rejection is never easy — this piece marks my 21st rejection — but it is part and parcel of the literary world. Submitting to journals, responding to calls, and entering competitions doesn’t stop because of setbacks. I have faith that I will eventually be published outside of Vocal and self-publishing. Until then, and even afterward, I will continue submitting and creating.

I paired this poem with Odilon Redon’s lithograph La Mort – Mon ironie dépasse toutes les autres! (1889) because it perfectly captures Death as uninvited and inevitable, while emphasizing the profound emotional weight of loss.