Think of the environment.
Ceramics aren’t biodegradable
so an urn won’t do if you need your ashes
buried in the plot of your estranged wife
where you can help her feed worms,
play a role in nurturing soil, and lift
trees into the sky.
If your obituary is scrawled
on notebook paper, ripped out
and photocopied, rigid
edges and all, the lines
still showing through faint
like soap scum collected
on a mirror above the motel sink
you were found slumped under—
If they hand your remains to your sister
in a Chinese takeout box, give thanks
for the laughter of your niece.
Give thanks because you’ve torn
a liquor-stenched wound
down the middle of this family
and for once it won’t be mentioned
as they gather. Take solace
in the plastic bag that carried you
to the cemetery, because instead
of going into ground, it will spend decades
holding hands with a breeze, wandering
around some landfill somewhere
repeating in bold red font,
THANK YOU
THANK YOU
THANK YOU
THANK YOU
THANK YOU
Originally Published by The Collagist