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I Wonder, When I am Dead I wonder, when I am dead, will the mortician marvel at the fullness of my breasts, the slimness of my hips, my face, my waist, the length of my legs? Will he bend to kiss my lifeless lips, hold my inanimate hands? Will he attend my funeral three-piece suited, losing control, as he watches them lower me in? Will he visit my gravesite regularly, setting himself against cold headstone, reading Shakespeare sonnets aloud for hours, blanketing my grave with scarlet petals, prior to every departure? Will he ultimately dig me up, dust me off, and dance about with my cadaver, underneath an understanding moon? I wonder, when I am dead, will I find love?
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