to imagine my own expiry is to
depart from this life,

this archaic impulse to
fall from grace and
onto the blushing floret of a monastery.
to tread on the prayers of passed mortals
of which, whispered thanks to Him in
the pinks for afterlife.

to transfigure the theory of my own viability is to commend

my sister for not dying when the caffeine dribbled down her throat and stimulated her veins.
my parents, for not fading too fast in the car as they floored it across the median.
my brother, for not traumatizing himself when he’s had the chance behind closed doors.
myself, for not pinning detrimental perils to my soul case.

all of me confesses to having one foot in the grave,
but not enough of me transcribes this whim of quietus
into the stone before a cross of antiquity.