I hope one day,

when our flesh becomes maggot food

and the beetles and worms make homes 

        in the cracked ivory of our ribs,

        my hand is still intertwined with yours.

                               I hope our legs are tangled,

        my hand on your mandible, 

my skull buried into the cavity of your chest bone.

         I hope the daisies we push up are fragrant

                             and turn their faces to the sun.

I hope they whisper your name to passersby—

                  And I hope, 

                          when our souls ascend,

we do it together:       death will not part us, love. 

I am not weak enough to let it.