when my stature falls from the grander of this Earth,

when my stature falls from the grander of this Earth,
i pray the willow trees not weep for me:
i pray the lilacs bloom swiftly from the soil warmed
by the intrepid sun and do not delay the simple violet buds
from protruding the summer sky in all of its glory.

when and if my feet slip from the dirty ground
i shall watch the faces of the children in the garden
to see their smiles on last time like a face
drawn on a red balloon floating upward over the horizon
where it floats down and nestles itself upon a branch
to give birth to thousands of tiny raindrops which come
and wash the dirt of the children’s sleepy faces:
again my falling body shall nestle in the mud and breathe
its sticky haze on final time—one final sip of sparkling
bubbly winter wine. when my legs break at points

as they crush the grass below i shall give my thanks
to the lushness that cushions my decent: the green
that stains my knees as proof that the soft Earth
does hold me true until that final gaping collapse
where my legs are pricked and poked by stiff blades
erupting from the soil—my blood flow not
from brutal strikes but from gentle doting hedges
who wish nothing more than to return my blood
to the parched earth. when my hands return to the shaking

shivering state in which i was born, my mother will hold them
shrieking, kissing it and raising it to God for one final
pulse from my everstill heart, one final jolt from my lungs
so i may repent my sins—so i may be a darling martyr for her
to hang from the oak tree in her front yard; to be the false idol
she lay her sweet unmoving eyes upon; so she may bathe me
one last time before i am covered in pale moist earth.

when my lips kiss the dreadful concrete where i know i’ll lay still
my father will know his name is dead—know that any platform
on which he and i would become a singular duality
shakes so hard when my bones rattle on the ground.

if and when i see my own body floating up and out
from the Earth i will kiss it on its tired forehead, giving it
subtlety as its parting gift—a way for the complex thinkings
of that last fathom: what i pray my mouth exhales
when i take that last scrumptious breath.

No comments:

Post a Comment