To you, all the leaves in the yard.
Whatever you can carry down from the attic,
responsibility for flowering my grave,
a war with everyone else with my last name.
To be bequeathed: all my organs to anywhere
they seem to fit most adequate,
the birds in the backyard, their houses,
most of the pantry, most of the garage,
most of my empty palms to be outstretched
towards sunlight before everything is ash.
At this point you should know
how little I want you to cry
in front of anyone, instead for every tear
you get anywhere in the house I demand
double that in laughter.
Sorrow bequeaths nothing but sorrow.
Yes for the millionth time, yes a mountain.
Correct, just leave me there yes, to dissolve
for vultures or lynx or any teeth to find me.
Let me sow into the earth,
beyond a small box of mahogany.
To anyone else: whatever they want,
the typewriters, the old wine, every book
and each unsent letter; let them go.
I’m already spent and can’t make out
twelve point from over there.
Read them aloud and then let anyone else.
My love I am gone and I am a mountain
more than ever, more than anything I was,
now I am; at the very least something
will shit me out and that’s more than most.
To you: every poem that no one read,
the glass Eiffel where you still
need to get kissed, lady. To you my fireflies.
When they wake you at night it is only me
asking you to get more comfortable, saying stay.
It is nice on this side of the wall, the weather suffices.
Sell whatever you need to make room
for the rest of your life to flare up.
Tell everyone I loved I could kiss them from up here,
open their mouths for wind and I’m there just so.
Tell mom about what happened at the mausoleum,
Tell her I am a mountain peak when you leave me.
If there was still a heartbeat or pulse,
some proof of me to quicken whenever you enter,
it is the only thing I wish only you to have.
To you: a reminder that long after a last exhale
all of me left, all my wild yours
you finally sneak into the dragon’s cave and find his treasure chest. you open it and there is just a macaroni drawing by the dragon’s son.
“ITS TREASURE TO MEEEEE” the dragon bellows
When we were untouched by human voices,
we could hear music played, and we were not unlike
the selves we brought to animals
whose presences were instruments of love
almost without fail. We saw birds every day;
before we slept we often thought of how those fly
who fly at night, not the dark topfeathers
serrating another dark, but the pale
underfeathers hidden by a wing that could, and had
glanced back. Fish also kept a paleness underneath;
don’t think we weren’t afraid. Our stillness
was pearl-stillness; if we were radiant
it was a radiance accrued while having been contained.
We wondered why to shell is to pry out. Music was beautiful,
fathomless in a way we understood, the notes most often
falling at the end like words in sentences, pearls in water,
animals, blue sky. We understood that in the time it took
each chord to play, some of us would die. Some continued
being held; others were holding still and listening.