in my ancestors’ house, dead, disembodied,
staring at my corpse on white bedsheets, i want
to pretend that i never happened. so, dust,
shroud my face, dry my mouth and swim
in my open, empty glazed eyes. peel flesh
sepulchral, pale and flaking. teach my dandruff
your soft moth patterns.
deterred by slight brown breath,
and a wife’s withered, meticulous hands, keep
your distance no longer, as my pores and or-
-ifices are all prostrate and silent. now,
no longer eddied by supercutaneous heat or sweat,
pretend with me before, whisked to the grave,
dust cannot be mingled.
during death, i realized, in the pocked light
you practiced as planets with angels, who
practiced god with parts of me—shattered hair and eyelashes.
from dust to dust, the angels laughed.
death happens only after the body is erased, they laughed,
as you all practiced, dust, i realized you were my ancestors’ bodies.
now, amidst the white post-humous powder,
the whole swirling fragmented galaxy, the dried d.n.a of centuries,
i welcome all of you dead, dancing ancestors
to laugh with the angels, mingle with me, and pretend we never happened.