All of us are diminished

I don't know what will happen when I die.

I don't want to know

but I want the potter to make a whistle

from the clay of my throat

and for that whistle to fall into the hands of a naughty child.

and I want that child to blow on the whistle

with all the silent and suppressed air in his lungs

so that it might disturb the sleep of those

who are dead to my cries