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
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.
