Death of a Dandelion
The day I died was not just one day.
It was a year, maybe two, maybe three –
It was slow. It was painful
And it went unnoticed.
The sun still rose.
The day I died, I did not go coughing.
There was no sobbing, no wheezing,
I did not die gasping for air.
When I died, I died gracefully.
The birds still sang.
The day I died, I had no hand to hold.
No family, no friends surrounding me.
I was alone, scared.
That was the most painful part.
The commuters still boarded their buses.
The day I died, no one heard my last words.
Those whispers – secrets belonging to the wind.
Were they poetic? Were they grunts?
Were they even said?
The school bell still rang.
The day I died, my last breath hurt.
It rattled my heart, deep in my chest.
My lungs squeezed out that dead sound, one last time
finally purged of its poison.
The door hinges still creaked.
The day I died, no one claimed my body.
There was no funeral, no wake, no requiem.
No one wanted to claim the abandoned, and I was left to the weeds:
the only things that would accept me.
The coffee still burned.
The day I died, only my soul was left to mourn.
It cried. It cried like war’s widow,
Over my body, over my end,
And watched the weeds swallow me.
The seasons still changed.
The day I died, had been a lifetime in the making.
I had been destined, meant to die,
Since the first breath I ever took.
But I was the only one who knew that.
The pipe still leaked.
About the poet:
Mick McMahon
Nineteen-year-old aspiring author, Mick McMahon, is a sophomore at SUNY Oneonta, studying English. His writing focus is in novels and short stories, though he has been writing poetry since his love for writing took off in middle school. He writes most of his poetry through a surrealist lens, describing his experiences as a young, transgender man, and memories from his childhood. He is currently working on compiling his works, including various poems, into a book, and what he hopes to be his first, published book series Stories from the Five Worlds.
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