CLAUSTROPHOBIA

When I die, I do not want to be buried for my panicked, living flesh retches at its sentimentality. I shudder imagining myself trapped in a desperate box; dark-carved wood - solid as hell;  arms rigid not wanting to budge even for a second, not even to claw the forest floor; worms feasting on my rancid lips;  plump maggots clawing inward; sand burying my fingers; water seeping in lightly tickling my feet; my heart all deaf to the howling of the tilted moon.

Here, now, in the middle of the night, a cobbled thought was born: I do not want to be buried in this godforsaken land. I'd rather burn; digested by fire; ashes scattered all over the seven seas under that awning they call the sky; where I would feel free; thin as air, liberated; uncorked; not dreadfully trapped.

All along my back, the apiary numbness gone.