The Nunnery

After I am gone, I hope they say,
“She was an odd bird!”

I hope they say that I drank
too much, laughed too loud, and loved
too freely.

I hope they call me “eccentric,”
maybe even “debauched.”

Perhaps they’ll toast my name,
hang black shrouds and weep.

Perhaps they’ll roll their eyes,
sigh with relief.

Death buries the dead regardless
of tradition or popularity,
so it doesn’t really matter.

I will go cold and rigid,
eyes frozen, lips shushed,
soul straying.

I hope they miss me.