by Yitzhak Maplebury
Box me on a warm bright day — youthful, though not, not ever again, useful — hands crossed neatly over shirt and tie. Let young things on grass plan parties, raves, getaways with only ethical narcotics and strong beer.
Indulge them in coquetry and intrigue, tasty gossip, bawdy, thunder-bumping-sex-beat rhythms and Romantically doomed dreams.
Let them be ignorant of death, and miffed by the gross solemnities of entropy, eternity and quantum creep.
Grant me peace in this, my first and only suit. Close the plain pine lid and lower me down.
Let them be curious, perhaps fearful —
Gather them over me to wonder: what is rite and why?
Let it -– all of it -– be alien to them, distant as violence, truth, sorrow. Let nothing be heavy and the sky so clear.
Blast them with aromas of Spring and skin; befuddle them with magic, laughter, pheromones and song.
Celebration of lips and hair; lusty minds a-flirt with promises —
I’m done with all that. I wish them well.
This essay first appeared at Dissident Voice. It is posted here with permission of the author.