Funeral

I feel I am hovering over a future cemetery

as I lie down on my back, in the dirt,

face turned towards the sky.

This is the place I want to be buried,

I whisper to the silence.

Not among others, no,

but all by myself –

a lone tombstone in this small

patch of grass at the park.

I will march in no

parade of the dead,

I want no company among corpses;

just me, and the lilacs

by the fence over there,

and we will have the most

splendid conversations

in the language of wind

and soil.

My funeral shall be here,

by the playground

and the picnic tables,

and I will not be caged in death,

not lain down in a casket,

but in a blanket of velvet

with my hair wild and spread out,

my hands open and ready

to grab the earth,

a book of poetry over

my heart.

Even now, motionless,

I feel I am dangling somewhere

along the Fates’ thread,

and with a snip of their scissors,

might go falling through

the thin veil between

my life and

my grave.

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