This Inch of Ground

March 25, 2018

I want to be burned

when I go.

Into the fire, laid on the ground 

with October leaves. 

Licked wet till the ash is drawn

and quartered

            like the limbs they once were.

 

To become the opossum

who laid there

rotting

last winter; fish bones

sunk to the bottom,

when this was a river,

            when this was a sea.

 

I want to find my brothers there,

homogenized as a speck

in a long line of specks

to join the story of this inch of ground.

No less glorious than an inch of battlefield

an inch of heaven

            an inch of barroom.

 

I am moved

for concrete foundations.

I am moved

in a truck, a dozen miles

thrown in a pile, in a bag

thrown on the ground, in a garden

            by a house, small and yellow, like my own.

 

To push at the roots

of an heirloom

soaked with hose water,

where bright red clown noses grow

full of seeds and acid.

Until winter death comes

            and I am blown,

 

or dug up again to make room.

Still,

I am part of that garden,

part of that forest,

that fire.

I am part of that concrete world

            where words die young

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