Dry and Pressed

photo: anthony mattox

Promise you’ll lay me
in the shifting sands of some
place with a name
that sounds like a
polite interruption.

I fancy that even the dead
can feel the dance of
sandy grains
skittering over
burned flesh.

Just keep me away from water.
I’ve spent my whole life
rotting and now I’d like
to blow away rather than
ooze into
damp soil.

If you insist on a memento,
couldn’t you wait for
an appropriate interval
and then press me between
the pages of a large book?

I’d like to be something
that flutters out
many years later
at an inopportune
moment.

This entry was posted on April 20, 2010 at 9:07 pm and is filed under Blog Posts, Flash Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.