Gestation with corpse fauna

When I die, let my swollen

body, in porcelain shadow,

forge a beacon for a gravid

blowfly. Let me divert my river,

guide her through my gorges

and toward my basin—womb. Once

found, let her lay her eggs where

mine once were, let her dam

my flow, let her drain my fluids

until I am dry, let my body crumble

around her, a cenote. When larvae

hatch I will offer what dead flesh

remains. They will consume all

of me except my heart, squeezed out

the branches of my ribcage, left

rocking in a windblown rain-pool

beside my skeletal morass,

steadily grazing my fingertips.