The audacity of it: to compose one’s own epitaph.
I shall be lucky so much to choose my spot,
If they even find me: but imagine the matriarch,
Her long-held life inflicting chiseled words
And casting stones about her, only in death
Still keeping both. For her it may have been
The final breath, a whisper set in stone,
Mother Forever. But in its secret truth
It is the sole discretion of the mason’s client
That shuts that mouth, lowers her lids and,
As the mason poises his chiseled words,
Plunges the nail.