When I die, shoot my body into space.
Tell my children that I’ve left them,
that I hopped onto the back of a westbound jalopy
and am bouncing through the countryside
with barrels full of booze by my side
sleeping in a communal bed with circus performers.
Take them to Cirque de Soleil every summer.
Tell them they’re related by blood to certain myths
and we have a family-wide romance with theory.
Fill their sleeping ears with traincars
that burn in the night like a grieving forest
and adorn themselves with landscapes they’ve conquered.
When they’re old enough,
tell them that I’m sorry.
Tell them that there are roads in this same country
where my ghost climbs trees to string ropes between them
and somewhere I am there playing cat’s cradle with the moon.
Most importantly, please tell yourself the same thing.
Children can always sense a liar.
When I die, tell everyone that I’ve got better shit to do
than lie around in the ground all day, static, and boring, and gray.