I Died at 99 and I'm Sorry About That

I Died at 99 and I'm Sorry About That

This letter is for you,

Nancy. Future Nancy. 

From Further Future Nancy.

I’m not asking I am begging. 

Pounding the wooden table

with my ghost fist to get you to let go 

the twisty tie, the paper clip, the nickel 

you’ve been holding in your hand

because you don’t know where they go. 

They don’t go anywhere, unwinding

metal painted pecking bird Nancy. 

They go in the sky. They go in a hole 

in the wall. You are perched on a couch 

in a room with piles of papers. 

Take your forearm

and sweep them all 

to the floor. Make a mess 

and go ahead and die. Not 

with a knife so there’s blood 

or jesus with a gun. Not with pills. 

Or a plastic bag with a doctor 

in the hall. 

Please excuse yourself 

maybe in a meadow 

on a blanket from the house.

And like a backwards Polaroid, blur 

to a smear of dark. I know this 

isn't pleasant. But it's okay 

to be dead. We're husks. We're dust.

We exit.