I am going to die at dusk
and arrive like the afternoon Maconda train
to the anticipation of your dearly departed.
Do not mourn. I have had no better ambition but to die
after the earth-eater is fed to her sustenance.
The final stitch is in my shroud.
I have been weaving and unweaving it
play-paddling upstream with my minutes
knowing they would be hours, an hour
Death is coming to take me
in her blue sunday dress.
Fill my coffin with your letters
to the dead.
I will find the one who slit his porcelain wrists
until they shattered.
He’ll flip open a music box like a tarot card
and his baby blue figure
will dance around me
unraveling my guilty black palm
I will need no last rites, padre.
I will make amends
off death-parted regrets
as a messenger to 20,000 ghosts.
My shoes are on the stair.
It won’t be long now.