POETRY

When I die

Photo by Moritz Schumacher on Unsplash

~after Claude McKay

When I die, let me drift easy from your mind,
do not cling and clamor for my absent words.
Ghosts speak quiet fortunes of unheard rhymes,
I’d rather find myself reborn in a flock of birds.
When I die, I hope it comes in the form of sleep,
that I’m here one moment, and the next I’m gone.
I’d rather not tire, treading water so deep,
not knowing when…