They say that in fifty years
social media accounts of the dead
will outnumber the living. They can be
deactivated, the way utilities can be
shut off, histories and caches cleared,
but they will live forever on some
remote server, a peculiar Akashic record.
Some people bury their family members
with their cell phones. The line is kept active
so they can call and listen
to their loved one’s voice
on voicemail. At any time, when you walk
by a cemetery, think of the ringtones and vibrations
humming beneath your feet.
These stories proliferate,
the people who die in their homes
and go unfound, the bills on autopay.
Six years later, the coroner is called
to cut free a body fused to the floor.
We do not return merely to dust.
Our particles join to whatever surface will have us,
destined to live on in bits and bytes
and dusty woodgrain.