When I died I had a self

reminder on the back of my hand.
I forget what it said now, but it was
something like, Don’t

forget that thing you are

supposed to remember.
My sister, fresh from meditation,
found me face down

in a pile of intention,

and tried to scrub it off
my hand so as not to upset Mother,
who always warned us

of the dangers of writing

on ourselves,
but it wouldn’t come off—
and that’s what killed me.