Don't expose my face after I am dead. 

Let mourners remember me instead 
as I was, breathing through nostrils
free of cotton clogs. 
Let them recall me when I was small, 
a gangly teenager for his age too tall,
a lover, husband, fussing father.

Let them forget how I gradually forfeited

each sense until my body learned

not to complain, but instead abstain

from the salt of indulgences.

Let me go without wails, 
without the opera mourning here entails? 
Let me lie in that un-mattressed bed,
with misshapen clods for pillows.
Unstrap my chin, set free my arms. 
I will aperitif on abe zamzam, on roses feed, 
smoke incense at the end of that first meal. 

5.4.18