When I die, bury my body
amid a pile of leaves,
then go home.
Plant clematis vines along fences,
fill the rest of your yard
with only native flowers
that will desire compost—
tend them lovingly,
as though you had cared for me.
This poem is in the forthcoming collection of Michael Dickel’s poetry, Nothing Remembers.
Originally published online in: Abramelin: the Journal of Poetry and Magick. E.V. 2(1) Winter (2007).
Thanks to Tereza Joy Kramer for helpful comments and edits.