When I Die
___________________________________________

Shall I tell you what to say?
I think about it all the time.
Do this first: look at all the notes I made.
And the sheets of calendars I saved.
You won’t find certain things,
so don’t worry about covering me.
I knew a baseball from a cycling cap.
I knew what was going on
on my side of the table.
Say I lied where my feelings were concerned—
without compunction say it.
When it comes to friends, hesitate,
but notice that I had too many,
and none but my father depended on me.
Him I didn’t let down, not even now:
even today’s accomplishment he envies.
Say that for a model I used my mother:
those whose hearts I broke were always
welcome around me in the kitchen.
In the notes you’ll find very little
to go on, since I never took down
the depths. I doubted their existence
beyond my sixteenth year. That I never
set out to hurt anyone is a lie
that bears repeating nonetheless.
But to tell the truth that I was not
different—this will get you (and who
shall you be?) borne away on the wings
of disbelief. Add that I loved myself.
Add that near the end. Tack it on
just before you close, not because I did,
but because it will kill my father.
He is, I know, afraid of dying,
but he wants to be immortal.
Our secret lay in not dying daily,
but in wishing to, and telling no one.