when i die, i won't
have a favorite color anymore
i'll no longer know the meaning
of green
or if it's something i'm
supposed to see, or smell,
or press between my fingers
i won't remember this
hole in my chest
which is bigger than
all the things
i've ever known in the world
if they were stacked and
spread out and
multiplied against each other
i'll have forgotten my
confusion about how, exactly,
i was ever supposed to
prop up that emptiness, lug it around
all my life and still be
expected to notice beauty,
humor, softness, all the
little things
i'll never know again
my failure to do so, my
surety of that task's
impossibility
in death, there will be
no memory, as i now know it
no tiny limbs missing
from around my neck
no laughter quieted
no fine silky hair needing
a brush
no miniature funeral dresses
no more visions of
tiny death vests
no more dreams of a man
i am shocked and suddenly
so very grateful to see again
none of that, no them
no me, no more
heavy sadness, no more
special days
no more the torture of
my happy life, stolen,
spent too quickly, nothing
in death, nothing, and
today of all days
i can't say i'm not
ready, so ready
for that nonexistence
that absence of
absence
