Rita Dove, “Last Words,” The New Yorker, January 25, 2021
I don’t want to die in a poem
the words burning in eulogy
the sun howling why
the moon sighing why not
I don’t want to die in bed
which is a poem gone wrong
a world turned in on itself
a floating navel of dreams
I won’t meet death in a field
like a dot punctuating a page
it’s too vast yet too tiny
everyone will say it’s a bit cinematic
I don’t want to pass away in your arms
those gentle parentheses
nor expire outside of their swoon
self-propelled determined shouting
Let the end come
as the best parts of living have come
unsought and undeserved
inconvenient
now that’s a good death
what nonsense you say
that’s not even worth
writing down