What to Do With the Body

I mean my body—after it is no longermy body.
I had some vague notion of a grave,
a lot of silence, fairly consistently cool,
and worms frustrated by 21 st century technology—
a well-sealed sarcophagus and casket—
the squelching of things circling and swimming around like
wormy sharks, unable to get in, and vaguely
swearing under their worm-breath,

when, this morning, after performing the Abbots Bromley, an ancient
ritual dance, dressed as a deer–in a way
only ancient people would have found deer-ish—
while de-antlering and removing our leafy masks
and scarlet hoods, Al and Kirk were talking about
cannons and how there’s this guy in New Hampshire
who will shoot your ashes from a brass cannon
with a deafening explosion. Listening—I became transfixed.

That mixture of ash-me with black powder
ignited and forced with flame and fury
through a small brass bore
in the live-free-or-die state is perfect!
To go out with a bang,
after whatever brought me to ash has passed
It’s the dance, the ritual, the last leap,
the blasted love of life grinning like smoke wide
white and sliding sideways across a blue sky—
my final spiritual escapade played out
the way smoke from a cannon flies and fades.

I feel a tingling sense of peace and excitement
like the “ooh” and “ahh” on the fourth of July,
knowing no matter what I do today,
quietly or half-hearted, in love or jest,
it’s all enough. It’s okay. Because
it all ends with my body moving other bodies,
resounding, dancing against the pounding chests of
anyone within earshot. One last Yippee!
Teeth, dust, bones, crowns, split ears
and all in a great cloud of thundering ash.
Who knew the hills could rock in my wake as
I go out with a blast?