Author's Note: This poem is part of my ongoing (and doomed) crusade against the whole concept of death. As Edna St. Vincent Millay once so eloquently put it: "I am not resigned.”
After the fire, when I am rattling in my urn and have no more to say to you, go home. Have lunch. Ignore me, while I try to learn the etiquette of ash and clinkerdom. Let me settle. Let me reconcile my boundaries with the cold geometry of this strange vessel— my new domicile whose curving contours reconfigure me. Let me liberate the elements that fused in me the morning I was formed and offer them again, as evidence that my short visit left this place unharmed. Help me be part of what the earth reclaims when you return to scatter my remains.
©2021 Marilyn Taylor
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