For some reason (and I don’t really know why),
you tell me you want to be taxidermy.

Like I said, I don’t really know, but
maybe it’s for immortality?
You say you want to live forever with me,
but please remember that you can only
become the deer above my mantle after you die.

Please remember that this is not life
and they will not stuff the pieces of you I find most important.

They will not stuff your heart pumping quick
when you take your first steps off a roller coaster
and have to steady your trembling legs with the handrail.

They will not stuff your lungs which balloon
and inflate when you meditate,
circulation of the cosmos and the earth
in your body at the same time.

They will not stuff your eyes which are Hershey’s kisses;
they will not stuff the way they glisten
when you touch foreheads with me,
when you read your poetry,
when you’re knee-deep in the Caspian Sea,
the largest body of water enclosed by the earth
except for us when you’re holding me.

So before you sign your will, I want you to know this:
that taxidermists will never fill your hands
the way your bones fill your hands.

If you go through with this,
your fingers will no longer be vines snaking around
my pot of morning tea or your arms
at night like long twigs reaching for me.

How can you be so sure that you will still reach for me?