When I Die

 

 

 

When I die, I’d like Ramana to be painted on my lips,

 

his name graven into the shivering fish of my mouth,

 

each tooth an alphabet of his, 

 

each letter sending home

 

a gift of love so true, 

 

the body rendered useless,

 

 skin just memory of a you that never existed, 

 

a life’s dream,

 

 

 

and the funeral:

 

a steady, yielding, unrelenting kiss 

 

that drifts simply

 

into emptiness, 

 

into endlessness.