What It Means To Know Death
The Ties That Bind, Christina Mokwa + Katherine Alt (2025)
Digital collage
What It Means to Know Death
(in 500 Words or Less)
To know death is to keep looking // to know death is to be the one sitting on the edge of the bed // to know death is to bury pet after pet after pet // to know death is to have the baby and know gravestones come in various sizes // to know death is to have the sex anyway –– cold, tired, wet from the unexpected August rain.
To know death is not to believe the propaganda // to know death is to breathe for the first and last time at the same time // to know death is to lean in when the elder speaks // to know death is to say goodbye in the same moment you say hello — joyfully, and with delighted surprise.
Death is a meditation — blissful grieving between every breath.
Death is knowing safety only gets you so far.
Death is hiding the abortion paperwork under your childhood bed –– the one with hand painted flowers // death is choosing an urn for your husband’s father and wondering if it hurt –– as you choose green and he chooses grey –– in the end, you choose grey.
Death is knowing you are the solitary heartbeat in the unlit, empty house // death is the long flight after you get the call — crossing over oceans and mountains, under your eyelids, to come home again.
Death is food –– cobblers, pie, and quiches // death is knowing the fridge will be a little more full before it becomes a little more empty // death is making that phone call, over and over // death is waiting by the phone, not wanting to know, desperate not to pick up.
Death is pain, and viscera, and unexpected ease // death is the white, unidentifiable mass // death is the doctor saying we’ll need a biopsy // death is the moment you miss the bottom step — all gravity, and animal fear, and ancient panic — until you realize there’s no ground.
Death is a mistaken identity –– a smile, behind heavy eyes // death is a child splayed on his father’s shoulder after a long day at the theme park — slightly sunburnt, face splattered with vanilla ice cream –– love dangling from every inch.
Death is saying I love you after every phone call, just in case.
Death is the beginning and end of ineffable dreams // death is the place where the old language is spoken –– silence, punctuated by laughter // death is the where beauty goes when it has no one to talk to // death is where you find your favorite old band t-shirts, all those missing socks with holes, and the dreams you accidentally dropped –– or had ripped from your hand –– when you were seven.
Death is words like metastasis, Naloxone, reprobation.
Death is the Morpho portis pinned in the doorway –– the cat on the side the road you can’t peel your eye off of.
To know death is to follow the light you cannot see, until it envelops everything.
Written work by Christina Mokwa – © Christina Mokwa/Mokwa LLC/Mokwa Creative Company
