I wonder
            why we so rarely
            treasure
                                      the intimacy
                                      of our own edges

          before the loving act
          of death
          unwounds        our memories
          of their inhabitants

                                          and finally
                      absolves us
          of failing

          at the shapelessness required to belong.

          (when I die
          I hope my life
          does not flash before my eyes
                                        like a movie

          but that it is written
          in braille      across my skin
          and read to me          softly
          by my own fingertips.)