{In Which I Write of My Own Death}

Today I borrowed books from a friend:
illustrated children’s books about the brain and books about teaching
students to listen to the —
well, the small voice in their heads.

I read them on the way home and
as we barreled down the hill in our long bus,
I was thinking:
What if I were to die today?

I believe that I ought to be comfortable with this idea, this death.
After all, who knows what my purpose might be,
surely not I.

I know people hope we cry when they die.
I only hope those I know are not quite right,
not quite comfortable with the immediacy, the reality.

I was thinking what a glorious mess that would be:
bodies, and glass, and me —
books about brains surrounding
my bloodied head like a pillow, or a crown.

Really, I only hope you find this poem, written in my notebook —
the last word, a mere scrawl,
the page smeared with my very last breath.


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