When I’m dead

please leave

the toothpaste speckles,

on my mirror-

They may form if

you stare just right-

into stars, and give you

a glimpse

of the vanished–

the space I’ve

stepped into.

My body, without


placed in grasses, mist

falls from late noon


collects on the bridge

of your gray nose

and forehead.

One drop rolls

into the crotch of

your left eye

and down.

Brian Janisse (May ‘18) Recalls more of that poetic moment. “A death poem. I’ve always imagined my body being buried in nothing but a sheet, feeding worms in my discomposure.”

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