Dress Rehearsal

Photo by Brian Ferry

Let me die on a shimmering summer's day, my eyes

burning like torches—aflame, and swallowing

that Eden—my body painted with

skylight, throbbing inside an

endless yawn of clover.

Let me die in the changing wind

of a plummeting evening, my

lips wide with gratitude, my

cheeks firm with authenticity.

Let me die boundless and ageless,

my face smudged with dust from

the hidden stars, and with traces

of places much larger than me.

Let me die… Oh! But then, dying by

design is a battle unto itself—and, as if

I could. As if my perfect plan were nobler

than the tender hover of The Universe as it halts

in mid-whirl, glances in my direction, and mutters,

Come, Beloved. Come!