Put on a clean shirtbefore you die, some Russian said.
Nothing with drool, please,no egg spots, no blood,no sweat, no sperm.
You want me clean,
God,so I'll try to comply.
The hat I was married in,will it do?
White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array.
It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug,but is suits to die in something nostalgic.
And I'll takemy painting shirtwashed over and over of coursespotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted.
God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens?
They hold the family laughter and the soup.
For a bra(need we mention it?),the padded black one that my lover demeanedwhen I took it off.
He said, "Where'd it all go?"And I'll takethe maternity skirt of my ninth month,a window for the love-bellythat let each baby pop out like and apple,the water breaking in the restaurant,making a noisy house I'd like to die in.
For underpants I'll pick white cotton,the briefs of my childhood,for it was my mother's dictumthat nice girls wore only white cotton.
If my mother had lived to see itshe would have put a
ED sign up in the post officefor the black, the red, the blue I've worn.
Still, it would be perfectly fine with meto die like a nice girlsmelling of Clorox and Duz.
Being sixteen-in-the-pantsI would die full of questions.
