This poem was first written as part of a story and has been published in its present form by Mark Ulyseas of Live Encounters Magazine at Live Encounters Poetry Feast December 2016.
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A Living Will
After I’m gone, say
the God I barely recognised
was indivisible.
Just One.
After I’ve gone, don’t
recite Kaddish. The
dying is for me.
Not Him.
Make the funeral short.
Let my body burn.
Should these requests be
judged thoughtless, most
perverse, let it be known
that I deserve no prayers,
praise, lies or crocodile tears.
What I did was wrong.
You’ll know this -
after I’ve gone.
Buy less milk and butter.
Turn the heating low.
Feed the cat. Cut
the kids’ hair monthly,
check their homework’s done.
Remind them they are Jewish -
after I’m gone.
When you make
Jack’s barmitzvah,
do invite my mum.
It’ll be good for
her to see him
wear Dad’s prayer shawl.
After I’m gone, carry
on as normal. Have
Janie round for tea.
I find your loving
comfortable.
Let’s not pretend.
It’s clear. She’s
a better mother
than I’d ever be.
After I’m gone,
pin a notice on our door.
“This woman,”
it should read,
“seemed honourable,
kind, fair; steadfast,
generous, taught her
children well.
“But as the final drips
of life seeped from her,
measured by the agonised
ticking of the clock, the
truth poured out.
“In a dream she
killed her father,
made mad her daughter,
then watched agape
as oblivion snatched
her, too.”
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© Natalie Wood (19 October 2016)
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