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Cremation

When I die,
I hope that my body
Is cremated.
I want people I never knew
To stuff me in an almond wood box—
One lined with white-linen
(As a metaphor
For comforting peace) —
And shove my inanimate self down a funnel
Where I will burn
(hopefully
In only a physical way
And not in a way that refers to the state
Of my, albeit occasionally
Bitter and disgruntled
And disbelieving
And sometimes ungodly—
Though I do try very hard to
Be honest and empathetic;
I'm failing at the process sometimes -
soul) .
When this happens,
My skin will slowly melt
And welt in gray, white-capped,
Crusted sores that would
Peel off
If placed in the gusting wind.
My muscles will be eviscerated,
Cooking like all the animals that I don't eat—
Myself, though sitting in a furnace
Like a frozen pizza in a stove,
Will remain inedible—
And they'll curl off what was me
As if they were rolling
Sleeping bags.
My bones
Would turn
Into black ashy
Dust that could be
Used by painters to
Create chiaroscuro or crosshatching
Or stippling
Or anything that envelopes
An image in a shadow—
My shadow.
I would like it if my remains got some
Use out of them,
Even if human rights activists
Would complain that using my bones
For paint
Is unethical (which it is
But I don't mind…
Decaying organic matter
Lends more life to art,
Doesn't it?)
As my body disintegrates,
As each part and parcel of my past existence
Granulates into a molten dust,
Volcanic fumes spiraling out from the pyre,
I want to imagine myself metamorphosing
Into the air that blows the smoke away—
I want to intermingle with the molecules
That people breathe,
Becoming a source for future life.
I want to have a purpose in death.
A good purpose,
Nothing selfish—
Nothing like I imagined
When I considered myself
A Christian
Back when I was in 7th grade,
When I thought I believed in heaven
(When I didn't
But I wanted to
So I faked it)
And that heaven was a bright,
Fluorescently-lit paradise
With reflectively-white
Marble/linoleum
(I don't know much
About flooring material)
Tiles, sterile and calm,
Peaceful and loving…
Where everyone I knew would
Be happy
To play video games with me at the movie theater
And eat Chinese take-out
(I now prefer Thai)
For eternity,
For forever,
For however long it takes to be everlasting.
It just seems nice to me to be a part of someone else,
To support life when I have none,
To give when I can no longer take.
As I integrate with the atmosphere
And the human ecosystem,
Someone can pour me—
Chunks and all, if chunks remain—
In a vase
That they can tip over
To pour me
(Yet again)
All over a sandy beach—
Yet again, mixing me with the world
That I never had a chance to be
A part of.
People may forget me,
But even though I will no longer have a memory,
Or thoughts,
Or ideas,
I wouldn't want to forget them.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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