I was hoping for a prettier death, but I guess dying is never beautiful.
I lay wounded under airplanes that are flying in circles above my head.
It reminds me of the toy airplanes that used to fly in circles
above my crib when I was a baby; a ceaseless motion
but captivating every time it runs its tracks again. I hear in my head
my mother’s voice singing Frère Jacques. That was her way
to stop me from crying. She runs her fingers through my hair
as I deny to myself that it is only the turbulence of a lost war.
Dormez vous, dormez vous. The lyrics are bent by the accent of her German tongue
and an echo rippling, enduring. That must be what it sounds like
to hear a memory. Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines.
Ding ding dong. The doorbell rings. I answer it, and it is my last breath
performing a grand entrance into my mouth one more time.
My mother’s words fade out. They always did
when the lullaby would put me to sleep.
Jessica Simonetti is currently a Psychology and Writing major at St. John Fisher College. She's been writing since she was little, and hopes with each submission and new endeavor, she can get one step further in her literary pursuit.