Diona Poff
Corporeal Latin/ Dead Body Language
Don't let me sleep in my death.
Don't lay me out like an Etruscan queen,
with knicknacks and a pillow.
When I'm dead, don't stuff me
with Egyptian potpourri and lead
the grieving past in solemn lines.
Don't fold my arms to X the spot
for vows of memory too tarnished
to inspire.
Please don't cleanse me
like a Viking, in a fire;
I object to burning food.
The grubs have promised
to remove unsightly flesh.
In the desert of Atacama
they found a man entombed
within a jar, a womb of clay.
His skin, a paper mask, peeled back;
his limbs, like those they found
in Kourion's debris, and in Pompeii,
were curled expectantly.
Yes. Posture me like that -
like I was born;
anticipating pain, and fear,
and space.
Diona Poff resides in Council Bluffs, Iowa, where she is the mother of four boys. You can occasionally find her sharp wit and astute critiques on The Gumball Post, Gumball Poetry's online poetry workshop.
Email Diona Poff at poff@gumballpoetry.com.
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