Ben Kline (he/him) lives in Cincinnati, Ohio. Author of the chapbooks Sagittarius A* and Dead Uncles, Ben was the 2021 recipient of Patricia Goedicke Prize in Poetry. His work is forthcoming or can be found in Southeast Review, THRUSH, CutBank, Olney Magazine, fourteen poems, The Indianapolis Review, Limp Wrist, Hobart and many other publications. You can read more at https://benklineonline.wordpress.com/.
Testament
My will says set me afire
until I'm atomic.
Neutron femurs,
my tongue a quark.
Leave no doubt.
My estate remains
a box, tape uncut,
label blank, a plume
from the glue. I arrange
my chairs at the table corners,
utensils in squares and no napkins,
no plates. A vigil for won’t,
the candles unlit
like a seance without chant.
Even eyes lie
with the help
of flicker reflected
off surfaces missing nostrils,
sea foam, obvious
teeth. They too should stretch
violet to red, radio maybe,
up out past ozone
to the oldest waves
washing Earth,
washing us back to the stars.
Don’t open the box.
It’s of my hand. Burn it
above lava. I won’t
scream. I’ll leave no doubt:
they’ll take me and begin again.
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