Shedding
In Memory of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
 
I hope you can read this letter. 
My hand has grown feeble, little
more than powder in loose casing,
returning to dust.
 
Age withers a body
down to ache and sag, but character 
thrives when wind blows through
death’s trapdoor. I’m not going
to bore you with esoteric, lofty
ramblings on weightlessness.
 
Let the braggarts
—the loud extroverts who regale
the entire coffee shop about their
meaningful spiritual lives—
follow the light, those wolves. 
 
I’ll dive to the riverbed, 
tie rushes around my wrists 
to keep from floating up. When I find
the drowned sun I’ll supernova
and take the water with me.