Death is complicated, not to mention hard to write about. There are various approaches, some more entertaining than others. The risk is in the tone. One can terminal_kyle_hemmingsfall into the deep abyss of fear and loneliness so many of us feel when it inevitably happens to those around us, the way our culture prefers. Or you can take the tact Kyle Hemmings does. Hemmings’ use of whimsy with the topic works. Remarkably, one can read his beautifully-written and provocative poetry on the subject for free online in his new e-chapbook Terminal, published by White Knuckle Press.

In the opening piece, “A Poem for the Dead,” we’re told that when the occasion occurs in our lives, “It isn’t as simple as you turn into NOT.” Kyle_HemmingsOur willing suspension of disbelief is immediately set—we can relate to someone who’s dead as if he were a regular guy. “You fold yourself into eternal thirds after crossing a synapse. You laugh.” Already ceasing to exist has become a little more comfortable. We can talk to them. They’re just like us, only they’re not alive. They laugh. They feel, too.

Even with the title of this collection, Terminal, my mind wouldn’t completely wrap around how it was about death, so programmed am I to avoid the topic. Before starting this impressive work, my brain stored the implications of the title somewhere under bus terminal or subway terminal, some hallway to nowhere that posed no threat. Of course the subject matter was obvious the moment I started reading. Reassured, I also realized these weren’t poems geared toward melodrama or even grief but more like having my curiosity exercised. The poems don’t lack depth. Not in the least. But death is also presented as something all us homo sapiens do.

In “Scam Mercy Killer,” the narrator doesn’t mince words. “I told him I wanted it fast. I told him I was terminal.” The killer postures and poses “as if he were Marlon Brando practicing to be himself.” Rather than the expected tragedy at the end, though, the killer ties the narrator up and merely steals his wallet, never actually doing the deed. Even he can’t seem to cross society’s line and be responsible for something as permanent as death. The narrator shouts, “Could you at least bring me back a cup of coffee?” This collection always brings it back to people as creatures, animals seeking comfort, no matter what state we’re in.

In “Sleeping Flowers,” the narrator is seeing a woman who is “taking care of her terminally ill mom and a set of potted silk plants.” As “weeks pass by like slow flames,” the narrator and the woman make love in the room next to the expiring mother while she remained dreamless with her mouth open.” Yes, somewhat irreverent. But does lovemaking stop just because someone is dying?

The lack of guilt one is required to feel when delving into these terminal poetic vignettes on this revered and usually no-nonsense subject is refreshing. It might be okay to die.