If I die today,
the unborn daughter stays in my cells
and books not written
lose their grip
and all the cakes I never baked
remain uneaten.
My sister’s baby never lived
to meet its aunt,
the tragic travelling
never happens, the plane flies
without this passenger,
the closet has boxes
that someone else will toss.
The liquid light
will fizzle forward,
and a few tears drip into the dirt.
The deep intertwinings
stop flashing as the dendrites cool,
the cells no longer flicker,
the belief in a web
disappears;
the pulse of tides is unaltered
except by immeasurable entropy.