PASSAGE 38

Douse my fire in flame, 

until I extinguish.

 Starve me of oxygen. 

I would like to see my last waltz. 

I will never know who with,

 nor do I intend to find out. 

I’ll keep that mystery until my final hour. 

I’m sure that my blood will taste sweet, 

as I have marinated myself in so much misery, 

and honey, 

and fruit, 

and meat. 

I would like to be buried with a crown of thorns and flowers. 

Drain me of all my blood, 

give me a ceremony, 

and return me to the soil once again. 

I will become a feast. 

We live to tell tales too many times. 

Our tales are too safe. 

One day I shall flirt with Death.

She and I shall dance the night away. 

Into the heavens. 

Into the soil. 

My bones - into the mortar and pestle, 

And made whole again.

By Ivan Luc