Funeral Service

No one will miss you when you die
            The voice tries to tell me.

But the particles in my lungs will kiss my chest goodbye
The plasma in my vein will grow cold and distant
The hairs on my scalp will caress my cheek once more.
This body is its own memorial service, its own funeral,
Its own celebration of life. My cells will dress in black
Before melting into the earth to blossom again as flowers.
This body is its own bouquet.

No one will miss you when you die
            The voice tries to tell me.

But I will miss me when I die.

Bri Craig (she/her) moonlights as a writer of stories, poetry, and plays. She recently published poetry in Bourgeon Magazine, the Athena Review, the Oakland Review, and Shelia-Na-Gig (2021), as well as an all-female one-act play titled, Purple Ink (Pioneer Drama, 2020). She credits caffeine and her cat as her main sources of inspiration.