So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us, as we remember them.
– R.B. Gittelsohn
Red lines divide plots
where dead are buried, living
memorial visits to cemetaries
‘cowboy cemetary’ euphamizes
unmarked graves for servitude.
The Jewish branch of Dignity® profits off perceptions
that cremation isn’t Kosher: my ancestors — Jewish, too
— have had their ashes scattered everywhere and nowhere.
She adored Paris, Carmel. He was once happy
by the Golden Gate. Don’t let my ashes be the rice you toss
at my dead wedding to a monument of any empire.
I want to ash into soil under
a garden that feeds you who remember me.
Grow it a permaculture jumble – no labels. Mix
sunflowers, squash, blackberries, sages,
cucumber, tomato, amaranth greens. Remember
how much I like rain on arid mountain air. That
new dirt will take at least a year to push up green.
Tuck me under cow shit and coffee grounds.
Notice growth more slow than you could see.
I live craving that kind of tempo. When I slow
down past a viable pace, let me seep
into memory to water your earth.
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