by E.M. McPherson
If I were to catch myself dead,
I could imagine that I would be caught
in the thighs of the dirt in the development across from the high school.
My face would be paler(two parts of coffee to six parts of cream),
and my lips a blue raspberry sweet.
Next to my dead, extinguished body, would be an anthill.
Working. Pounding. Destroying. Rebuilding. Walking. Communicating.
Defecating. Spitting. Defending. Carried away by the desires of their stimuli.
The funeral would be nonexistent
(divided by zero by all means),
and the thoughts (speculation) of
how I died would be limitless, irrational.[22/7]
I can see everyone standing together,
Will tighter than a coaxial cord,
shirts made by hands of people whose
eyes are unfamiliar to my face.
A song sang in their most guttural voice,
spit strained dry by their sadness.
Even a march to end suicide, you know,
things that humans do in the mist of their sorrow.
Jokes would be made,
an internet cautionary tale I will be.
Posted as a martyr at home,
Posted as a coward online.
Frankly, the thought of it all makes me absolutely sick.
Hide my body in an anthill, let no one think of me anymore.
Rotting. Decomposing. Working for a cause.