When i die--

because, yes, i can plan for things, 

but only the unplannable--

i’ll get this taste 

in the lines on my palms, like

being so certain of the lottery numbers,

then getting them wrong, then

trusting that the cosmos will give you the same ones

down the line anyways. I’ll wane into dreams

with a teacup saucer spooning the brim of a dusty pocket

imagining a weeping willow, second earth mother, the

one you’ve dreamt of since your baby days when someone brought up

an unfamiliar peace. I’ll breathe into a soundless fall in

the groping moss and the saucer, chipped like all fine things,

will droop and zig zag down my chest, sugar smoothie 

blood in the clean grass, porcelain pastel lipstick stained teacup in a

baby fist, and i’ll pour the whistle liquid

down into my lungs, and lounge,

forgotten, forgotten in a fine way, forgotten like 

crossing yourself off the scribbled, water warped

to-do list of the stars without doing much of anything at all,

and the archaeologists will come along when the gasses are visible 

in shades of beetle skin and ochre and they’ll say,

scorched and wild, scorched and wild, 

but we’ll never know how or why.