Testaments from the Departed
I prefer a body
to its
absence.
Simple things
last under fire:
a needle, a knife,
a skeleton,
a street without
end, crumbling
red brick of these
cemetery walls. In the end,
there is no
end that we know of, just
a concept. I’ll
see you some-
where.
***
Translate me
into clay,
into words,
into light. Enable
lasting.
Restore hunger to
my lips.
All those
unsaid things—
a garden
of lost
thoughts—
give them
meaning.
Translate me
into yourself.
***
On the bottom
shelf,
my shadow.
The middle,
a mirror
holds my face.
On the top,
a jar
with my
ashes.
Room
full
of air.