'The Deaths' by Jo Shapcott

I thought I knew my death.
I thought he would announce
himself with all the little creaks
and groan you hear of
that we'd get friendly and walk
our walk of two drunkards
with him chattering inside me
about lumps and arteries
and his gift of pain which would be
too big to wrap properly,
that some way into our courtship
he'd give me the look and
I'd implode like a ripe mango.

I thought I knew my death
so when, after a bee buzz
of an afternoon, the rain started
and the fine hairs rose on my neck
and the long hairs tugged my scalp
and my mouth stank of seaweed
and a tingle ran round my wrists,
I didn't recognise her. She lit
a green flame over my head
and even then I didn't get it. She threw
me yards back, traced her filigree
red cartoons on my palms until
I was gone and still I didn't know.