Westwind

Requiescat in Pace

Natasha Schmika

 

Please,
no flash photography when I have passed.
Instead,
bleach my bones with your hydrochloric tears.
Lay my humerus amongst autumn leaves.
Lay my hands laced upon my weary chest.
Lay my hollowed skull at the top of the stack
so that I may gaze into the heavens,
higher than all others.

Please,
stroll silently through
my pay-to-enter tomb.
When I expire,
I demand respect.
I demand serenity.
My gaping eye sockets
should rest upon chic garb.
Allow no youths to display underwear.

Please,
gather me amongst
the billions of other
celebrated,
beloved souls
so that I may have company.
Arrange my earhole next to Chelsea
so that we may gawk and gossip
at gauche tourists across the way
who engrave A&C 5ever into faded stone,
choke on putrid oxygen,
shiver in the gales of time
as the clock strikes 12
in our momentous second of existence.

My legs dissolve
My arms are stolen
My ribs crack open and pour nothingness
down
down
as my hallowed skull rolls
down
down
to the bottom of the stack.

 

Natasha is a linguistics major and a shameless nerd. She loves skydiving with sharks and overthrowing local monarchies, but mostly the simple things in life, like watching paint dry.

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