The Death of the Humanities

Apparently, we are all lying here beside one

another in a darkened room around 2:00 am,

giddy as if at a sleepover, each of us waiting

to see who speaks last before the other dark

hits hard. Here we are lying side by side one

another in our caskets, chatting, on the verge

of dying. These coffins sure are comfortable,

and I love sipping my iced coffee while feeling

snuggly as if I’ve been spooned into a sleeping

bag beneath a night delicious with stars’ clarity,

stars bent to kiss my face, the eyes of a friend

who knows who my favorite author is, who gives

me Red Comet for my birthday. Why do you say

I’m dying when I am reading, holding the hand

of an author I know like a lover though they died

years before I was born? Why are you telling

me I’m dying when waking feels like a birthday?

Feels like the tendrilled feet of butterflies landing

on an open palm. Reach down into my heart,

squeeze its pump, feel its big yes. If this is dying,

I like dying. If this is a coffin, I like its bed.