How the Burial of My Soul and of Other Nouns Would Most Likely Take Place

This I know: it’s buried under the house. So
if the house collapsed, the graves and their fragile jewels
would sink even further into the ground.

Which is to say that
all the courage hiding beneath grieving flowers
has now landed in hell.

Prometheus will claim it, call it his own.
He will live in my home, shove thorns in the walls
until you can’t find a single one underneath all the rubble.

Then he will become the thorn,
pricking the mourners, just as I should have done.
It’s so raw. Like crying.

So raw. Everyone’s eyes will peel layer after layer
of their two glass onions, try to hide them when they blink.
But the ghost writing my eulogy can only conceal so many tears.

I tried scaring her, it’ll say.
And yet, she remained unfazed.
As she is with all things, everything.

Old man recites a prayer dedicated to my soul,
ones I would have never said while alive.
And it goes:

GOD
HELP US FIND THE COURAGE WE NEED TO MOVE FORWARD
FOR COURAGE ACTS IN THE FACE OF GRIEF

I’ll say amen with the mourners—
they know what it means more than I do.
They don’t stutter when they pray.

I am worthless to an extent.
Death comes at a price.
In heaven I’ll ask for a discount.

Ottavia Paluch is a disabled high school student who lives in Ontario, Canada. A featured Gigantic Sequins Teen Sequin for 2018, her work is published or forthcoming in The Cerurove, Alexandria Quarterly, Body Without Organs, and SOFT CARTEL, among other places.