I asked “When? When are you going to die?”
To grandma, grandpa, other grandmothers.
Not soon, I thought, if I’d get my druthers.
Death discovered, though, I did not think why.
I did not ask if death were proud or sly,
Nor did I inquire if death took lovers,
Whether death asserted false alibis,
Or given death, why the living bother.
I only knew that death is when we die.
A tautology test for a toddler,
Confused the grown-ups left me to proctor,
I asked “When? When are you going to die?”
To grandma, grandpa, other grandmothers.
Anne Babson’s poems are published in journals on five continents. She is the author of multiple chapbooks and three full-length poetry collections — The White Trash Pantheon, Polite Occasions, and Messiah. Her latest collection, The Bunker Book, about the pandemic and the rise of fascism in America, is under contract with Unsolicited Press and should be released this winter.