Hour seventeen: What the dead would say if they cared about us

When I die, paint wings
across my skull & lipstick on
my smile. Death is awful,

but I do not want to be
a reminder of the inevitable,
the unknown, the void

that calls from busy
intersections, high places.
Imagine me as an angel

in whatever religion brings
you the most joy. Believe
that I watch over you,

that I am the reason for
your last-minute parking spot
on the day you’re running late,

the butterfly that lands
on your shoulder. See me
wherever you need

& think of me only
as much as brings you
comfort. Let memory

press me into whatever
shape you need me to occupy
in your mind, because you

are the one who has to
keep living. Whatever you wish
you could have said, I already

heard it. Know that you
were right. You did
the right thing.

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