I Will Die in July

NaPoWiMo - Day 2 - Cesar Vallejo wrote a pretty famous poem that begins with him saying that he will die in Paris, in the rain, on a Thursday. So go ahead and write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell. It’s less morbid than you think


I Will Die in July

I will die, in July, on a Wednesday with no humidity

just after a garden party,

where I have worn a ruby tiara.

There will have been a full moon party the night before

with a lawn picnic, red wine

and yellow roses for the moon.

There will be books scattered about the house

and dirty glasses waiting for my children to wash.

These things will keep them busy.

Like my Father, my family will have gone

so I will have the dignity of death all to myself,

and like my Mother it will be gentle and welcome.

And after my death there will be celebration,

music and poetry

and, of course, some tears

as death always leaves

holes in the lives of the living.

Let them remember I died in joy.

I will die old and beautiful

on a Wednesday so that on Saturday

the women, my Sisters and Suzette,

wearing exotic clothing

can send me away, and I

will go - singing into the universal mountains.