when I am dead–when the world outside or inside my body
has brought it to a halt–
when I am dead, my bones will still be queer.

and if I am lucky enough to be buried straight into the ground,
the dirt my body seeps down into will be queer
the little flowers, the worms
the oxygen the plants breathe out
all queer as the day is long

and if tradition gets the better of my wishes,
in all that needless shining weight
the atoms of my coffin will be queer 

or the button that my baby brother pushes
to change my body into ash
the button, and the fire, and the smoke

if I should die of old age married
to a kaleidoscope
that our foolish language calls a man

or if I should die somewhere
in the flash point of hatred 
watching sacred spaces evaporate
like water on hot stones

a sign on my chest and my jaw working
trying to get one last kiss blown
one last showtune belt out 
one last middle finger up 

while the world that has given me everything
takes also everything away 

either way: hello, for however long,
and to have been once goes on forever.

when I am dead, my bones will still be queer. 
the little flowers, the worms.