I request my glasses to be taken off first. Even now I am
tired of wearing them.
I request not to be put in a box. They are unwieldy,
smothery and cramped. A draw string pouch is more
appropriate. They come in assorted fabrics that breathe. It
would be a gift bag to earth.
Speaking of gifts, I request that people, in the similar way
of crows, gather shiny things from here and there, keys,
fake eyeballs, bits of metallic string and the like, and bring
them to me like belated presents.
I request someone to put my sweet little dog on a leash and
bring her to me from time to time.
I request that she put her nose to the ground there and
recognize whatever is left of me. I have no doubt she can
do this. She’s got skills.
I further request that dogs in general should live much
longer than they do now.
As the men I have loved have all been lovely and as these
men have all been carpenters, men who build things and
occasionally tear things down that must come down, I
request that with every carton of nails a secret prize is
discovered and that the prize takes the buyer into the grand
orange light of the future.
I request that people say of me, she lived in sorrow and was
pretty much fine with that.
Theresa Williams has had poetry and fiction published in The Chattahoochee Review, Gargoyle, Hunger Mountain, The Sun, and many other journals. Her novel, The Secret of Hurricanes, was a finalist for the Paterson Fiction Prize. She is the recipient of an Individual Excellence Grant and a Summer Residency at Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center from the Ohio Arts Council. She teaches literature and creative writing at Bowling Green State University in Ohio.