At the funeral, you don’t sit up in the coffin
and hug each loved one good-bye.

There are no dramatic last words
before the lid is sealed shut and shipped

to the afterlife. I don’t want to be squashed
in stale dirt, clawing against the wood

till all my skin flakes off and I’m jus bones
and only then truly dead. Let my last breath

erupt like a geyser visible from miles away,
then pump me full of helium and set me loose

like a ballon. Pour my ashes into an hourglass.
Bury my hands under the Delaware grass

where my father taught me how to catch.
If I die in a car crash, don’t pry me

from the wreck. Let that be my casket.
If I’m hung from a tree, don’t cut me down.

Hammer a coffin around my cold frame.
Watch it swing back and forth the rain.