Cadaver

I sit about six feet above, in thought,

this body I despise, all meat and bone,

how glad I’d be to watch all of it rot,

but the cadaver on the table is my own.

Look at the way they dress me, makeup, eye-

shadow, too, everyone is looking through

my chest, hoping my heart might beat, but I

am all but gone, and it’s a good thing, too.

In life, I thought this was the only choice

I had, to make my family sit around

my casket, try to tell my jokes, my voice

alive in their rendition of my sound, 

but when I watch their state of mind, my mother’s

tears– A chance, I wish I had another.