Death comes at you when you least expect it, flies in your face like a baseball in gym class, you looking the other way like always. Death settles in fast in the bottom of the bottomless pit that is your gut, settles and sits like cement, waiting, waiting, to dry. It slowly vines its way up between your liver, between your kidneys, into your breasts, clinging, gripping, sucking electrons from the rest of your life. When you eat cereal in the morning, it is there at each spoonful sucked of milk; when you get dressed, it waits in the weave of your cotton T-shirt; when you ride the bus, it flickers by in every bare tree and freezes your butt on the thick plastic seat. It is death that makes your glasses lens gray. It is death that closes your voicebox. It is death that makes your mother sigh, that makes your shoulders stoop, that sword that slashes through your guts every time he goes to the hospital, every time you look at his yellow face in the dim streetlight.