Having met my corpse,

I consider what outfit to dress her in,

and what colors are most becoming. I consider
whether she will need one meal or three;

if she would be more at home in the wilderness
than on the 9th floor of an apartment building.

Since time is after all the most invincible
thing compared to our suffering, what

would be the best use of her time? She knows
the fleeting warmth of a body beside hers in bed,

the yeasty smell of fresh bread; the way a drink
of cool water courses down the throat— as if

it could find its way to each bone’s marrow when one
is restless in the night, unable to go back to sleep.


In response to Via Negativa: Vanity.

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