I wish to be buried without a coffin.
No wardrobes hoarding my fashionable bones,
Freely, I shall rot into the soil, and
outspread my wings around the stones:
holding hands with the worms.
No airy pine-stinking space in which to turn.
But around my head, the soil crumbly and rich like a
beautiful chocolate birthday cake,
scattering pieces all over my face.

As they crowd around at the service instead
of slowly lowering the spaceship,
allowing it to gently hover high
above the grass, before landing softly (safety first!),
they shall shout ‘fling her in’,
And head first, face down I shall fly
with a flair and a flick in my limbs
a looseness known only to death, towards
an earth known only to skin.