When I die, darling,
Shroud me in linen - something light
to ease me through the heat.
Something breathable, to let the dirt in.
I did always like the way it looked.
Please don’t burn me, darling.
I have always been made of Earth.
A clay born homunculus baby,
I slipped out with clouded eyes
and a head full of honey.
There’s a beautiful place I know,
out near the coast, where I could hear the waves
crash even six feet deep. They’ll take me.
One day the ground will eat my starving artist heart,
my iced feet, my oxidized thoughts-
and that patch of grass will be the greenest.
Darling: when I die, bury me with my hat.
You can keep my scent.
Hold my laugh in a glass jar on your bedside.
Keep my spirit in an old mint tin,
let me rattle around with ash and ash.
Oh and darling, make sure to
count my tattoos before the first handful of Earth.
I would hate to be out there, soul flayed and
laid on the scales just to look down and see
I’m missing one.
When the black flocked murder of mourners arrive,
sift through the net of well-wishes.
Pick out the beads, shells, and sea-glass.
The tips, kisses, and pearl teeth, anything
that will suit my outlined memory.
Darling, remember to say thank you
for their poetry: the crystal salted kind
that slips through the squared off brave face.
One more thing, darling.
Remember me as having done enough.
You’ll know, when all I sound like is the summer crickets:
the cavity of my chest fills
in and I am total and whole and gone at last.
Give everything else to Mum and Dad - my paintings,
my notebook, my eyes, my grin, and my shadow.
Oh, and my brother can have his shirt back.