I have many marvellous visions
while walking down Orchard Road in black heels
past the powerful roof of Tangs
the glassy facets of Wheelock
and Aquadisiac's cheerful paper mache fish.

They are about life and death.
The thought of your death never fails
to bring a smile to my face because
of your instructions that you be interred
exhumed and your ashes mixed
and preserved in a bowl to resemble
black sesame or vanilla ice cream. I love you!
I would like the world to know your wishes
as well as mine: I want to be buried
in this particular country. I do not want
my birth and death to arc across
the Atlantic like Plath, whose real name
is Sylvia, or any other Indian or Pacific ocean,
unlike my life. Like Alexander Sergeyvich,
whose real name is Pushkin, I wish
to be buried in the same latitude
as these eight sided roofs and monuments
to our country's local god of the economy.
Ah, St Petersburg! The opulent
savage gilded bejewelled domes of Russia!

Just a few clickliks away is the spot
where I was knocked down by a car
on my nineteenth birthday
because there is just no legal way of crossing
that road without jaywalking.
As I didn't die that day,
I have since moved on.