I want my ashes thrown in the face of my worst enemy.
“Sometimes I don’t like you,” she says.
No, I’m serious. I’ll make it conditional
if you want to inherit my estate.
“Or I won’t get to inherit debt and a few thousand books?”
Alright, then harvest my organs, give them
to whoever needs them, stuff me full
of explosives and shove me out of a plane, over
the capitol building while congress is in full session.
“Ass,” she says.
You could stuff me. Not with explosives. Dress me
in a tuxedo, put a high ball
glass in my hand and, fine, fuck it, never mind.
She shakes her head silently as she taps at the keys of her laptop, her face a pale canvas.
I suppose, if you want, you could cremate me and take me
to Morro Bay, just at sunrise
when seawater and sky embrace and look
out over the rock and three fingers
just like we do. Scatter my memory
where my memories are sweetest, where gulls cry
the salt breeze will carry me away. And when
you’re there you can breathe deep, take me inside
and remember my love for you.
Her face twists and the tears begin and I don’t even have the strength to lift my hand and wipe them from her eyes.
I mean, if you absolutely refuse to throw
my ashes in the face of my worst enemy.
The promise of a halfhearted smile fumbles its way through the tears.
* Originally Published by Aardvark Press, which, I’ve been reliably informed, will be shutting down in the very near future.