Her pelvis perfectly aligned, arms hugged
to hips. She lay on slab as the scanner
had its way with her. This broad’s bones weren’t
so bad, but one day she’d turn up her toes.
Hence, lying there she began to plan her
own memorial. Bawdy bones roasted,
hedonistic habits toasted, a soupçon
of quips in the wake of something sober.
Verdi’s. Ah! Gran Dio! duet, a grand
dénouement. Cindered remains scattered
beneath a beech tree on a breezy
blooming day. And a crusty crony
dodging bone dust might be heard to say,
can’t deny — she was a great piece of ash.
― appeared in Mediphors, March 2000