IF DEATH WERE A MAN

If Death Were a Man
by Kathy Lukasavitz

If Death were a man
He'd come like Pan into my garden
smelling of Cedar and Raspberries
Although He would not be invisible

I'd blush at His nakedness
His directness
His intent

When in an embrace
I'd place my nose in His ear
and realizing my maturity
finger His animal body hair
then we'd peel my veils away
one by one

Peace, Shanti;
Love, Kathy


She was closer to my mother's age than mine, but she was the dearest friend I could hope to have, from our first meeting when I was a teen. In the wee hours of the morning, late in the fall of 1995, I had a dream of her begging me to "Take care of Luke" her husband... WEIRD. A few hours later she called to tell me she had been diagnosed, that morning, with advanced ovarian cancer and likely wouldn't live to see the next summer.

Over the course of the winter I indulged her in a whatever special treats I could find; she loved nature, her gardens were her passion. when I visited, it was always she who would end up comforting me. We would listen to native music, talk and laugh and cry, nibble on exotic fresh fruits & such... the last time I saw her, she could barely breath, that was really hard to watch. She told me how terrifying it felt... and I felt so helpless. She spoke of flying through the pine trees, how she looked forward to being free to do so. She promised the first thing she would do was try to find me and get a message to me. And she gave me a book, The Soul of the Night by Chet Raymo, and her poem. It was our last visit.

In the late spring of 1996, I awoke early one morning, around 3 or so. There was an eerie chill in the house, icy really, tho it was warm outside. I walked naked through the darkness of the house, wondering where the cold was coming from. In the kitchen window was a light, about the size and shape of a football. I couldn't tell if it was outside or in, and I tried to touch it. It was a beautiful blue and as I reached for it, my hand went through it. I could feel her energy, it was amazing.

I went back to sleep, and was awakened in the morning by a phone call telling me she had passed on at about the time I had experienced this. The circumstances of her passing poignantly matched the version of the poem she had written. Luke had carried her upstairs to the bathroom; it was a great old ramshackle farmhouse with the bare necessities. He brought her back down to their bedroom, and before he could tuck her back into bed, she died in his arms.

A poetic demise