Joe, when I die, don’t waste a second:
Inject me with formaldehyde.  Make an incision
At my navel and insert a trumpet

Straw.  The sound of your breath, my friend,
Should aspirate my lungs.  Weed out all excess organs—
Gall bladder, liver, intestines, etc— then extract
The brain through the nostrils, the sound-box through
The jugular.  But Joe, please, don’t get carried
Away: I’ll need the heart.

For good luck, retrieve Mom and let her spit
Inside me; retrieve Dad and let him write
“Juggernaut” on a scrap of paper so he can drop
It inside my stomach.  Then Joe, sew me back
Up.  And after you’ve remembered the little
Things—two coins for Charon, one honey-cake
For Cerberus—turn around my friend, don’t look
Back.  You’ll have prepared me for anything.
The way I was never prepared for life.