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
[...] Read more
poem by Tim Stensloff
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