Backwards Anniversary

At some point in the future
On this day, I will be dead.
I will not die on this day
(I promise, I will never die
in February)
But on this day
I will be dead.

I will be dead in February,
I will be dead in March.
I will be dead on Valentine's Day,
I will be dead on my birthday.
I won't be coming home for Christmas,
but I will be dead.

At some future point,
Everyone who knows me as a living person
will also be dead.
At some point, everyone who remembers me--
in whatever way people might remember me--
will also be dead.

All of my conceits, all of my schemes,
All of my loves and my meager humilities,
they will all be forgotten.

For now, however, I have a chihuahua
on my lap, a laptop balanced on my knee,
I smell like pachoulli, and there is caffeine
coursing through my veins.

There is classical music--I recognize very
few pieces by name--on the radio,
And I am still a little sweaty, still recovering
from a little virus that ambushed me
a few days back.

I celebrate this backwards anniversary
by sweating,
and maybe I'll have another cup of tea
before I head to work, tempting fate again
by using our interstate highway system.

But, no worries, it's still February.
So I know I'm safe.