the writer kept typing by Bogdan Dragos

the old man wrote about miracles

and wrote that it
takes a miracle to
know
a miracle

They found him dead over his
writings
on the day before Christmas
and declared that he had been dead
for weeks

But of course that couldn't
have been true

His daughter was home but
days ago
and found him alive

He smelled strongly of
alcohol and
sweat and rotting flesh, but he was
moving just like any
other living man

Hunched over his small desk
and typing
on the keyboard

dead men can't do that

“Must've been a miracle
then,” said the
doctors. “According to the expertise,
and the expertise is not
wrong, this man has been dead for
at least a week and a half.”

But of course
the doctors were men of science
and men of science knew nothing
about miracles

The writer was alive. Even without a beating
heart and with more alcohol in his
system than blood,
the writer was alive and his limbs performed
the mechanical movements
until his guts burst out
through his mouth
and nose and eyes

he was alive

and it would be so romantic to say
that he was in the process
of transferring his soul from the body
through his fingertips
into the written pages, but even the
doctors knew better than that

There was no magic to
it, no poetic happening

Just some condition that allows
the body to function
independent of the mind
and heart, like a fish swimming without
its head, a chicken running without
its head, a cockroach crawling
without its head

The writer kept
typing

and even though explained by
science
it was still a miracle in itself

and the words he left
behind were
truth
and the truth had set
him free 

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