Three years after death offered me lollipops soaked in chocolate

I’m reflecting on the experience.

When death asked me for a date, it was a dark and rainy night.
I was pedaling quick to meet friends,
someone driving a big hunk of metal didn’t bother to slow for a look, drove into me,
knocked out a few ribs,
shook my brain good

I was knocked out so some people cut my clothes off me, took me to the hospital with some sirens,
Put me in an incubator
Death came along with syrup dripping from his tongue then
Gave me some frosting coated candy canes
Said “Hey you look hungry. I just wanted to give you my number.
If you ever call, I’ll be waiting for you baby.”
I was hungry. Unconsciousness doesn’t feed the soul much.
I was looking for life, I was in the mood for a feast,
I figured life would come swooping in, wearing a beautiful white translucent gown,
Feeding me strawberries with her fingers
presenting a five course meal of green salad, lentil soup, roasted veggies, cheesy casserole, and blueberry pie

She never showed

I was hungry
For days
Death kept dropping by with his sugar
I fought
In an empty room with a table and a phone
A post it with death’s number on it
My body was getting to be too much work for my soul
That post it was starting to glow
Those lollipops soaked in chocolate that death has promised me started to sound like a whole lot better than nothing
(all that life was feeding me)
my soul picked up the phone
said, “I can’t fight for this body anymore, this brain’s all busted and swollen, life forgot about us, she’s never bringing dinner,”
“Hey baby!” somebody said
“Yo kid”
there was a chorus of them, souls in this room with me,
they took the phone out of my hand, said “shit son, you don’t even like lollipops!”
“I’m hungry,” I said, “I thought life would come and bring me dinner but she never showed.
I can’t take care of this body any more, and this brain turned into a baby.”
“Child,” said the chorus
Life doesn’t come knock on your door like a trick-or-treater
Life isn’t sitting around creating, you lazy mother f***.
We create life.

We’ve got your body, don’t worry about that
We made your salad, soup, veggies…we can’t make your casserole
Only a Minnesotan can make a hotdish proper enough for you, honey
We’ve been waiting,
We’ve been here holding you,
And you’re just staring at that telephone like it calls someone
Like there’s a soul who loves you who isn’t in this room with you right now
Come on baby
Stop thinking you’re alone
Stop waiting for life to come along

Make it

We need you

make some freaking casserole


(December 7, 2015)




Published by kris gebhard

Kris (pronouns they/them) is a clinical psychologist, poet, percussionist, and gardener currently residing in Chicago, IL.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: