Fadly Hj Halim
Someday I too will be dead but not rotten.
The undertaker will have drained my blood
into the floor sink that leads to a flood
of sewer waste and all I will have gotten
was eye gloss and rouge and my lips sewed tight.
My lost possessions will fill city dumps.
My organs will set in formalin clumps.
My skin will be glossy, waxy, and white.
That is not the worst. I will not recall
revisiting these lines, like parents placed
in homes to rest. I worry at my haste
to erase, to rewrite, not let it all
be enough, this conceptual time,
the writing, the reading, the letting go
of words held too tightly for them to flow
like ink, or blood, or tears, or sense, or rhyme.
Richard Stimac
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