Photo by John-Mark Smith
When I Die of This
James Penha
Tell the books.
Tell the manuscripts.
Tell the open bottle of red wine in the fridge.
Tell the dog, but first feed him.
Tell my ninety-five-year-old aunt, if she’s still alive.
Tell the president–
no, don’t bother; he doesn’t listen. Or care.
Tell someone to bury me or burn me up
when they get a chance.
And some day, when this is all over,
read the books,
read the manuscripts.
Tell yourself what you would tell me about them
as you used to.
James Penha
Tell the books.
Tell the manuscripts.
Tell the open bottle of red wine in the fridge.
Tell the dog, but first feed him.
Tell my ninety-five-year-old aunt, if she’s still alive.
Tell the president–
no, don’t bother; he doesn’t listen. Or care.
Tell someone to bury me or burn me up
when they get a chance.
And some day, when this is all over,
read the books,
read the manuscripts.
Tell yourself what you would tell me about them
as you used to.