Author: Lois Marie Harrod

Depends, she says, on when she dies:
in winter the blue silk
with its Mediterranean shifts,
in summer, white clouds,
the blinding walls of Mykonos.
Whatever the weather,
she will look good, better than life,
Botox does that these days,
a new body before she shrivels into the old one,
just in case her man returns from his wanderings
to stand at her casket, to say he loved
her once with the terseness of men
who drift, who will remember now
that he promised to be faithful
as the flotsam that floated him home.