He wanted to be buried on the moon.
At last he was answering the question
but she wouldn’t have it. She laughed
and he laughed, but he persisted.
He brought it up at dinner parties.
He wrapped it in a joke, but she
knew he meant it. A guest said
there wouldn’t be many at the funeral.
No maggots, though, another said,
and no graffiti on the gravestone,
at least for a decade or three.
She brought up the cost. He shrugged,
spoke of sponsorship, of ice-
preservation, of the enabling future.
He would be famous dead. A guest
proposed a grave on Iona, among
the graves of kings. Mentioned
that only twice had men landed
on the moon, and they were living.
Suggested writing to one. And asking
about grave-sites, she added.
He was undeflected. He repeated
he wanted to be buried on the moon,
whatever it took. He went quiet.
A fifth cork was popped, then he
offered a compromise, a heart-coffin
snug in the hold of a space-shuttle,
his heart in there, the rest of him
in Highgate, in Derry, in the sea.
They were all delighted to agree.