The Death Lottery—Dante Novario

          – After Shirley Jackson

The crisp paper slips spun like deadly silk
beneath the soft sky, each one a small act 
of flimsy fate and tethered tradition

This year, my name was plucked 
lucky 

I was overjoyed, adorned in lambskin, crowned 
with a fresh hyssop garland; the envy of all
who are not gifted the luxury of deciding their deaths

I picked a classic, a sacrificial festival 
brimming with ripe cherries, burgundy wine, the best harpist
in the valley leading a parade of swans and a symphony of laughter 
rising like the sun

I want a procession of joy, a grand marshal
of grim magnificence leading straight to the cemetery, streets lined 
with roses, escorted by the people of my life as happy 
as I’ve ever seen them

Now, I will never have to mourn 
again, bury mom or dad. I’ll get time 
to make amends, write heartfelt letters
to every person I ever loved, or could love

I’ll die with the sighs
of maidens in my ears, with eyes turned green
as meadow grass, witnessing my last breath;
knowing it will be more important than their next thousand

I swallow the arsenic in opulent, drawn out 
sips, savoring my last tastes, finding the perfect posture,
one that will solidify my place as a martyr, God’s fortuitous  
fawn, who gave themselves for the good of everyone

photo by Nikola Cirkovic (via unsplash)