When I die, I will seep into
the hospital bed
A ghost settling into that empty body
To become a surgery cradle through the
straw of my hair
the soft of my breast
the wheel of my hip
and frame of my spine and rib cage
each counted in bundled dozens

but the parts of me unused I ask
Feed them to the starving dogs
crying behind the hospital
And invite them to the beds made of me
with a feast of IV bruises
and tapestries of medical tape