The Last Visit
Lined up like make-believe guests, potted ferns
Adorned the entry, their cool shadows dim
Switching the parlor — life’s last living room —
Where time hesitates and dark furnishings
Project inarguable dignity.
Bookended by brass casket handles, lids
Too heavy to be raised again must sense
My presence, those defiant eyes I closed,
Who parsed my childish alibis, whose last
Wink nicked the priest, who forced death to hold still
Till her eyes sent light leaping into mine.
Make-up achieved the requisite life-like
Illusion, simulating deepest sleep.
Anxieties from cancer, agony,
Diminishment, decay, helplessness:
These were dissolved by death’s majestic wand.
No longer glued in sickbed amber, she
Exhales departure’s cloudburst, stretches free,
Ignores those funeral displays. I feel,
Inside pink satin, energy’s astir.
Longing embedded in the earth has been
Roused, charmed from sleep to welcome her. Except
Tomorrow’s pre-dug grave will not confine
Zest’s essence — just her perishable corpse.
Bright windows fogged. Or was that tears? She’s flown.
Jim Morrison Reads Poetry in Pere Lachaise Cemetery
“I can summon the dead.” ― Jim Morrison, “Power,” 1969
Jim Morrison, performer, lyricist:
Skewed skeleton of concert fame became
His bones, its fascinating armature
Attracting tourists who’ll mythologize
The self-destructive “Lizard King” who died
Addicted to escaping humdrum’s thrum,
Buffets of opiates, the open bar
Always available to young rock stars.
His anthem: “Come on, baby, take a chance.”
Jim’s following now congregates around
His tomb, participates in photo opps,
Attends his grand, eternal wake, laments
Not getting in to The Doors’ sold-out shows.
“The end of nights we tried to die,” sang Jim.
Twilight, when visitors have danced away,
Jim’s ghost recites his poetry ― free verse ―
To literati inside Pere Lachaise:
Colette, Moliere, Gertrude Stein, Oscar Wilde.
“Some are born to the endless night,” wrote Jim.
Reclining on his slab, enjoying lines
Of rhyme ― because a boneyard lacks cocaine ―His spirit contemplates sobriety.
His Dionysian, bare-chested side,
Arrested for indecent exposure,
Calmed, he’s aware his bathtub finale
Was the last splash he’d snorted up to make.
Death Fortune Cookies, a Baker’s Dozen of Dire Mouthfuls
Most Scorpios will be murdered.
Japan outlawed one-way tickets to Izu Oshima, an island where hundreds jumped into Mount
Mihara (i.e., Suicide Point). But Sicilian volcanoes welcome caldera fanciers 24/7. (Wink.)
Anthony of Egypt, patron saint of cemeteries, yearns to make your acquaintance.
Tumbling into a hot vat of chocolate induces heart failure. An accident at Hershey park will
spark international headlines, fulfilling that unspoken quest for worldwide fame.
After decades of Ponzi schemes, Bernie Madoff died behind bars — but continues to hex
investment managers, day traders, nose pickers, and jay walkers. You’ve been warned.
A prodigy — a future Einstein, Mozart, or Marie Curie — desperately needs a kidney transplant.
Organ donors get complimentary funerals. Soylent Green fans must act now.
Annually in Africa 100—300 fatalities occur due to a hippopotamus stampede. Book a safari.
Global average lifespan is 66. Obituary photos will be more flattering prior to a 40th birthday.
Nine out of ten Aquarians will choose defenestration.
Henry James called death “the distinguished thing.” Sophisticated formal attire, tagged for the
mortician, will guarantee memorable selfies for the mourners.
“La petite mort" (“little death”), a euphemism for orgasm, tolls the bell for voluptuaries. Sex-
triggered heart attacks can finish off a man while drunken consensual sex is more likely to kill a
woman. Either way, nearly 500 adults will die each year by falling out of bed. (Hint: Satin sheets
and nightgowns are more slippery than nostrils nosing a mirror for birthday cocaine.)
Though mortality rates from celiac disease have risen, and baked goods contain gluten,
overdosing on fortune cookies will be a slow march to the scaffold — but a new statistic for the
Guinness Book.
Tip generously. This will be your last meal.
Author’s Biography
Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild.
Elgin Award winner "A Route Obscure and Lonely," "Concupiscent Consumption," "Women Who Were Warned," and "Messengers of the Macabre" by Nat. 1, L.L.C. [October 2022] are her latest poetry titles.
Up next: a tombstone-heavy collection in hardcover by Beacon Books.
She has been leading a poetry critique group for two years.
Her Texas Guinan film won "Best Feature Documentary" at N.Y. Women's Film Fest (Dec. 2021).
