Don’t Let Mom Write the Obituary

Hey, so
I think I might be dying.
Or already dead.
I’m not sure what the difference
is because my head
is a ‘94 fleetwood hearse of detachment, driving
forward to an end date
on my to-do list,
toward the ceremony
of the doing and the done and the left
unfinished, you know?
This world is a cracked
urn anyway, ashes waiting to spill.
I am excited to die.
You probably think that’s your fault,
some nature vs. nurture complex (I know) you
are the type to write eulogies
of viral Facebook posts.
You might die first.
Might already be dead.
This message
could be the last of us—
whatever we ever were.
Parent-child “it’s complicated,”
maybe you are the reason
I want to die.
You already resurrect my deadname
every christmas.
Casket of straightened hair,
shaved legs, she/her pronouns
at my funeral, will you tell the room
my life was just a phase?

Sage Agee is a queer, nonbinary poet and parent living in rural Oregon. Ze is currently inspired by the works of Billy-Ray Belcourt and the unbelievable evolution of their brand new baby, Otto. Their work has appeared in Goats Milk MagazineWarning Lines Mag and is forthcoming in Honeyfire Lit, Sledgehammer Lit, TheTideRises, and Impossible Archetype. Zeir poetry has also been nominated for the 2021 Best of the Net Award.

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