Do not bury me in your ground.
Do not cover me with clods of earth and mourn
my departure.
Do not put me in the cursed soil, where soldiers’ boots
loomed over my great-grandmother.
(Her namesake, I carry her ashes in my bones; she holds
no grave, to remind you.)
I do not wish to lie under a shattered headstone, my name
swastika-sprayed.
Do not entomb me in the
burning land that bore me;
the shrapnel-soaked earth will grind my rotted flesh,
the thunder of war will
disturb my final rest.
Do not cage me in a coffin; the tree should remain
standing in the forest, not house my remains.
Do not shove me in a burial-drawer; build a school instead.
A home for the newly wed.
Have flowers rise
from the dirt.
I will be among the shrubs, within the wings
of an early morning breeze.
For dust am
I.
Nothing more.
