When I am dead, my dearest, don’t stick my bones
together with Scotch tape. Do not try to fit them
underneath a frame. Use them, one by one,
as a weapon, a gavel. My bones,
they can be good back scratchers, honey mixers,
and hands of clocks.
You can toss them across space
and see how far they’ll glide until another hand
slips across it. When I am dead, dearest,
thread my bones to the top of a mountain.
The next time you arrive at a glass sea,
spill it boldly. Spell your life in two parts,
watch them float until they descend
like a weight down into that container.
together with Scotch tape. Do not try to fit them
underneath a frame. Use them, one by one,
as a weapon, a gavel. My bones,
they can be good back scratchers, honey mixers,
and hands of clocks.
You can toss them across space
and see how far they’ll glide until another hand
slips across it. When I am dead, dearest,
thread my bones to the top of a mountain.
The next time you arrive at a glass sea,
spill it boldly. Spell your life in two parts,
watch them float until they descend
like a weight down into that container.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

Join the Discussion
This article has 405 comments. Post your own now!