When I die
I want you to name some sort of food after me
a sandwich, a salad, even just a mixed drink. It can be
something that already has a regular name, like
peanut butter and jelly, Waldorf, gimlet.
Just add something different, like pomegranate seeds,
or a teeny tiny umbrella, something to set it apart
Make it look like something new.
I don’t need a fancy headstone
poems read or songs sung at my funeral.
Just make sure I find my way into someone’s lunchsack
or hastily scribbled onto an unsuspecting menu
casually dropped in conversations about
exciting local cuisine or
unacceptable changes made to home-cooked standards.
I believe entomologists must have the best sex dreams of all
masturbate to the memory of pins pushed through flesh
as wings flutter vainly under their gentle touch, leave glittery streaks
on the cardboard mount before dying in perfect repose.
These are the things that dampen an entymologist’s sheets, prisoners held captive
under glass domes, poised on fake flowers, fake leaves
the feel of their index finger on the head of the pin, pushing it in,
pulling it out, resetting it for the perfection needed
to make a successful mounting, a piece of ass good enough
to display before other entomology club members. In these dreams, the butterflies
have longer legs, hands and fingers that clench in clawed desire
as the pin goes in, sigh in relief
as the pin is pulled out. The beetles say your name as they die
say it over and over again as though trying to remember it for next time
or perhaps to pass on recommendation for the next insect in line.
Some of the Things that Happen Around Us
The violinist folds himself into his case, tucks his wings
in carefully, folds his arms across his chest, sleeps.
Beside his case is a smaller case, with a handle, and in it
his violin also rests, perhaps dreaming of new strings.
There is no need for furniture in this house. Everything sits or sleeps
in a case or a cage. The shelves are filled with kennels containing
sleeping cats and dogs, covered birdcages of canaries and finches
parrots who think they’re in charge. Even the unnecessary couch is covered
encased in clear plastic, as if being preserved for freshness
as though some day, the violinist might have company
and they will want something brand new to sit on.