It haunts me. Will anyone remember
to pack my head in ice, to make the call?
Alone, I stroke the metal chamber
in which my bloodless body soon will float. All
papers signed, now when my heart gives up they’ll steep
me in entirety, yet, so I’m told,
not for eternity. I’ll simply sleep,
cryonically preserved in iceless cold,
and as the decades roll they’ll keep me cooled,
top up my tank with liquid nitrogen.
My shaking hand – at death, have I been fooled?
The grave, the fire – a better choice? For when
descendants come to peel the tin,
what delicacies will they see therein?
(Unpublished, © Lee Nash 2017)
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