When I Die, Bury Me in St Pancras Station
by Karen Morash
When I die, bury me in St Pancras Station.
Or at least my head.
The rest can be dropped at the precise mid-Atlantic,
to float, decapitated, between two continents.
But my skull, it knows where it belongs.
Position my ear to hear the music
played on well-worn pianos
by hands smooth and spotted,
domestic and foreign;
impelled by the joy of melodies shared.
Point my brain cavity towards
the library to end all libraries,
beloved behemoth,
so that my cells can leak out
and return what was borrowed.
Relax my jaw,
open and waiting for libations
from white-aproned acolytes
of His Holiness Cafeaulait
and supreme goddess Semillon.
Place me under plexiglass,
so that I may gaze upon the feet
of Arrivals and Depatures,
remembering the anticipation
of new destinations.
When I die, please bury me in St Pancras
or at the very least my head.
Let la musique qui résonne
down her broad halls,
bring life, even to the dead.