In corpse pose I practice feeling the satin lining of my coffin,

imagine the gently ruffled rim meeting my stiff skirt.

Next month, I’m attending a wedding in a cemetery,

and I can’t decide what people don’t like about that.

Who wouldn’t want to haunt their own grave

and then go dancing?

This month, my sister turns a quarter of a century

around in her pocket, contemplates saving it for later.

By the time I was her age, I’d spent my two cents on

stockings that would rip in the same line along my shins.

Today, I play dead on a yoga mat, like this will be the moment

I’m enlightened by mortality

and not like this feeling has been

shadowing me since birth.

I stretch out the elastic in my veins

as if they’re under warranty.

Head still, hands crossed over heart,

I inhale for a count of eight

decades to fog mirrors with the water

my body heats to steam each morning.

————————————–

Mary Geschwindt called us from New York, NY.

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