Poem: Unintended Selfies

I will last
after I die
in iPhotos,
that will keep me as I was.
Nearly.
It is the modern privilege,
Of sorts.
To hang around awhile longer,
after trillions of my ancestors,
are now only pieces
of dug-up skulls,
Or hand prints
on French cave walls.
Those are the unintended selfies.
We keep them in the drawers of museums.
In my iPhone camera.
I hold Archangels in my hands.
And snap myself
into permanence.
I can even take,
what I have eaten.