I died in the village. It was morning.
I died in the village, everyone came. There was a buffet.
Scorpions crawled over my eyes, into my nostrils, into my ears. Scorpions.
The wind had a sound like music from the other side of the world. People painted their faces and danced. Monkeys screamed from the distant trees.
Women covered my corpse with a white cloth. It might have been a table cloth. From Walmart. It had a cheap look to it.
I died in the village. It was morning. People were lined up at the well to get the morning water for washing and cooking. Chickens ran around in the dirt street. They pecked, as chickens do.
I died in the village. It was a Monday. I rose above my body and looked down. I could see the village, the people, all of my life. I could see what my life had been.
Looking down, I remembered the feel of your hand on my leg, on my thigh, that look you had, your smile.
Looking down, I remembered the feel of your lips on my skin, the taste of your mouth. Then the light grew brighterBrighterBRIGHTER and I was gone.
I died in the village.