Kyle McCord
If you’re reading this,
I
forgive you for eating me first.
Then
Hector, our Mayan tour guide,
who
doubtlessly ascended
the
tree of wisdom
next to
the fern of unwise disrobing
in
public venues.
Then at
least four members
of the
archeology club
while
those scrappy kids
obediently
translated
the
sarcophagus’s inscription:
Please
visit the gift shop
on your
way out, vile desecrators.
I toot
my rustic horn in approval.
If you’re
reading this,
beware
Bachelor #1
whose
love of long walks on sandy beaches
doesn’t
survive the second date.
Then
the children come out of cryo
like
greyhounds bounding
onto an
orbital platform.
Bachelor
#2,
the
fleshless beast of nightmares,
shares
your affection
for
early Will Smith cinema
and
couch surfing at polar research stations.
When
the wind rushes over his billboard empire
he
secretes a sort of melancholy.
Rest
assured, the SWAT teams
have
him surrounded.
As for
my effects,
buried
beneath our makeshift mackerel factory,
you’ll
find an alarmingly detailed biography
of
Boris Kasparov
and a
pictorial history of our years
as
star-gazing antlers.
Scatter
my leftovers
on the
snow-drifted sea
where
we birthed our young
and
each day raised them
to be
the most well-preserved ziggurats
ever to
grace the stage.
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