do not weep for me as i pass
this brain has made ascent to ash
these feet have walked the final hall
and all of me has gone to lull
do not weep for me – who knows,
perhaps something of me still grows
if not here, then somewhere brighter,
with nights deeper and days lighter,
some place neither far nor near.
and if you weep – i will not hear.
The maggots must remember
her smile for its warmth
or the unreal stillness of hands
accustomed to trembling;
perhaps they noticed
the tan pantsuit she wore to rest
(a choice only she
could have made), or the
fine coiffing of her hair,
somehow regal despite
the thinness of the strands;
or the parchment-white of her
eyelids, the lips flattened
to a serious line, the blush of
faint finality across her cheeks.
the maggots must remember.