In corpse pose I practice feeling the satin lining of my coffin,
imagine the gently ruffled rim meeting my stiff skirt.
Next month, I’m attending a wedding in a cemetery,
and I can’t decide what people don’t like about that.
Who wouldn’t want to haunt their own grave
and then go dancing?
This month, my sister turns a quarter of a century
around in her pocket, contemplates saving it for later.
By the time I was her age, I’d spent my two cents on
stockings that would rip in the same line along my shins.
Today, I play dead on a yoga mat, like this will be the moment
I’m enlightened by mortality
and not like this feeling has been
shadowing me since birth.
I stretch out the elastic in my veins
as if they’re under warranty.
Head still, hands crossed over heart,
I inhale for a count of eight
decades to fog mirrors with the water
my body heats to steam each morning.
Mary Geschwindt writes from NYC. A Pushcart Prize nominee and Gather editorial team member, her poems have been published in underscore_magazine, the Upon Learning That Anthology, Gather, the Harvard Urban Review, and Rookie Mag. She is a transportation planner by day, poet by night, always looking for poetry in the movement of the city. Connect with Mary on Instagram @poemsasmaps.