I give you permission to crack my ribs

if ever comes the day I stop breathing.

There you will find a velveteen rabbit,

a small recreation of the long-dead lizard,

and my son, covered in wheaten fur,

glad for a night of sleep someplace warm.

If, in the process, you erroneously press

on the greying slabs of my former lungs,

I’ll sing out a final note for you alone.

G5 and you may join along now, at last,

for I am dead and gone and no longer

able to monopolize time and attention.

With the rib bones make potaje colorado

or whichever was your favorite, I forget,

and with the body embrace. Please…

It will be a gesture toward the illusory

nature of goodbyes and, if ever we see

one another again, I will have remembered.

Like my namesake, let me go unengraved

except for on the surface of sheet gold

circling a chubby infant ankle roll.

Instead, I will float on Atlantic waves

all the way home and back again, over

the natural course of years, miles still.

I am remembered by the children I raised.

I am remembered by the cruelties I spat.

I am remembered by the glass I soldered.

I am remembered by the flowers I plucked.

I am remembered by the hands I held.

I am remembered by the words I—

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Marina Ramil is a Latine lesbian whose work can be found in Stoneboat, South Florida Poetry Journal, OxMag, Astrolabe, and elsewhere. They live in Miami with the alligators and strangler figs. You can find them on Instagram and Twitter @thesuncomingout.