at my autopsy, my ears will recall
the ceremony of waves
on the Antrim coast while my mouth
will aftertaste a fig & lemon cake.
inside my open chest will be hid
a novel on a day in the life
of a kite made of thin human skin
which circled the Slieve Donard
before sailing a wind to Madeira.
at my autopsy, my bones will curve
into a red cradle of antlers,
my deerheart; purple, blue, black
will drain its plump bag of ink
and stain the pathologist’s gloves.
the sun from the hospital window
will direct its warm blow of dust
to the soles of my feet as it did
in Athens, as in Lisbon
Wicklow & Rome.
