I Am The Most Morbid Person I Know

May 19, 2003  ::  11:28 AM

When I Die

You will find me, it has to be you,
after the sickness or accident.
You will cover your face with your hands.
Your dark face with those lips, a plastic sheen
faintly purple, like a liver under your nose.
You will kiss me and keep kissing me,
and it’s not the same but it’s good enough—
it only ever had to be good enough.

What will you do with this freckled
pale body? Take it to the ocean.
That place that never stops moving
that will writhe over my skin, weave
through fingers, legs, hair.
I used to be afraid of the vastness,
but I was more afraid of death.
So go ahead, take my skin to the sea.
Send me off, limbs as masts
I will bob like a buoy in divine weightlessness
into that mysterious place, a believable heaven.