A Final word
The note in my pocket says,
politicize my death.
Rip me out
of passive tense
the way I was
from this place:
with a bang.
Executions
don’t
just
happen.
See how complicit you are.
Show me you’ve learned something.
Pay attention, it says,
to the taste of altered carbon
settling against your tongue.
Notice the way it exposes your gums,
and swallow your two cents.
Lap up marrow from shattered bones.
Let it nourish your own into action.
I’m more than a number, meant
more for this place, but this
will have to do, and
I don’t want
to be forgotten.
