Death,

Do you remember Jean Hendrickson? Of course you do! Wait til you read what she's written now! A very different poem from the one you read here first (Community), this is a work of stark and graphic images. It is a personal poem, a request of the Grim Reaper himself. If he appreciates poetry (and I do hope he's a reader!), her wish just might be granted.

Death,
By Jean M. Hendrickson

don't lurk
in my bedroom
smelling of unwashed feet
and dirty laundry;

roar
around the corner
going ninety
and smash me flat,

burst my heart
and use the aorta
as a hose to shove a clot
into my brain.

Whatever you do
give me no warning
leave nothing
to chance

—kill me—then, move on.

 

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