Canister

It haunts me. Will anyone remember
to pack my head in ice, to make the call?
Unnerved, I stroke the metal chamber
where soon my frozen cadaver will float. All
papers signed, now when my heart gives up they’ll steep
me in entirety, yet so I’m told
not for eternity. I’ll simply sleep,
cryonically preserved in iceless cold,
and as the decades roll they’ll keep me cooled,
top up my tank with liquid nitrogen.
My hand shakes uncontrollably – a fool,
will I regret my choice? What then?
Who knows what kind of pickle I’ll be in
when keen descendants come to peel the tin?

(First published in the anthology "Bloodless," Sliced Up Press, October 2022)