A FEW WORDS FOR MY MORTICIAN

I prefer not to be drained like a beast

in the yards, but you may paint a flush

on my puckered skin, prop me on pillows

and keep the lights burning pink and low.

Tell them what a challenge my face became,

how you puffed up my cheeks with paraffin

and cotton, kept my lips and lids moist and

full with quick injections of a silicone

manufactured exclusively for your good house

of death. Tell them you didn't have to work

on my smile at all. Explain how the thing

took shape even as the last air quit moving.

Please play soft music. Debussy will do.

Place a ring of fresh daisies in my hair.

Insist I'm but in slumber, that it was my

custom to greet guests even in my dreams.