First published in Picaroon Poetry, issue 5
(Sundress Publication's Best of the Net Award, Nominated)

It’s said that
when you die,
the last thing
to go is your

Can you imagine it?

Lying there, helpless,
and after the death
rattle you hear,

oh, fucking hell.

He’s dead.
He’s dead.
He’s dead.

Imagine that.

It’s enough to keep you up at night.