By Taylor Mali

I don't want to tell you what you already know
So I won't tell you you're going to die
Even so there was a time when such a revelation would have felt a curse
My mother told me not to cry
That she, not I, would be the first to die, which only made things worse

And someone here will be the next to die
This, too, must come as no surprise, but this isn't a poem about the death of that person, the next in this room to die
This is about something else instead:
The very last one of us here to join the dead
He or she who outlives all the rest

When that day comes
And may it take its time
By then who will care or even know we all once met, gathered to share stories, rhymes, wine and bread
The rest of us all dead, except you, the last one to go
When that day comes who then will know

I say we will
We will be waiting for you in that other place To do what we are doing now
Face-to-face with whatever wine the dead have to drink
What bread to eat
We will greet you and say welcome
Come and eat
Take, at last, your empty seat