Last Words, by Holly Day
Where to put the special instructions
that detail what must happen to me when I die?
Is this the thing I should have tattooed
on the wide, soft flesh of my inner thigh
or across my chest surrounded by roses and butterfly wings
or just tastefully scrawled across my back, between my shoulder blades
like some arcane Biblical phrase or a line of Sanskrit?
Who to send the special instructions
who can I trust?
Some lawyer receiving a letter through the mail post mortem
the bored children I leave behind, interested only in what I’ve left them
the husband who’s just pissed that he didn’t die first? I want to be
tucked into the ground in soft white wings, wrapped in my coffin
in the folds of a bat, want my skin stripped away completely, my bones
scoured and bleached, want eagles to take my eyes and liver into space
want to be missed.
Photography by Nathan Bailey