If it's me, first, I would like you to
blanch and shock my kidneys
and feed them to the cats.
Take a flamenco fan and glue
Myna-bird feathers inlaid with my
lashes to the crest. Dance.
Save my clippings, keep a ballerina
box for the parts that keep growing.
And kiss me. And the other thing.
This chance won't come again.
Fire my teeth from a BB-gun aimed
at the spire of the Empire State and
fling my hacked up limbs in the water
and mix the ashes with fireworks and
hold a parade. Then
braid my hair into a Persian magic carpet
and take it to the cliff and
teach yourself to fly.