& after I die, 

don't let me lie
on that table for a moment
longer than necessary—
get me an undistinguished
white shroud (if one or
two feel moved to embroider
it they may) and bury me
safely in the wet dirt
I've been waiting to call home.
Forgive me, but I can't bear
to be looked at when I can't 
hold my face & body just 
so—and who but myself
do I really trust to wield
the knife or foundation brush—
No, no. Closed casket, a definitive
sentence of a goodbye. 
No wondering if my scientific
donation meant the jut of my
pelvic bone measured & re-
measured long past when
any identifying scars above 
have moldered back into dust
in the stomach of some distant worm,
along with the particular 
spot I always used to bite my lip 
to peel the skin back.
Instead: only the soft & mysterious
electricity underground, 
neighboring trees whispering to each
other the distantly-remembered
color of my hair.