When I die, there will be no traffic jam,
no escort, no police in my parade.
I do not want a single mother
to be late picking up her child

from a private school she can
barely afford. I do not want a passing
middle-aged accountant to be late
for his family dinner, for his children

to eat in silence, wishing he were
home. I want to learn how to take
up space while I am alive, to dance
sober with the lights on, to break into

song without worrying about my voice
sitting too high in my throat. I want
to wring every sweet note from this life,
crack its bones wide open and suck out

the marrow. I want to die with a list
of accomplishments too large to fit
onto any stone, the correct name
etched into my obituary.