Take my bones when I am finished
with them. Legs here-to-thering,
fingers tearing, knuckles cracking,
toes maintaining the balance
of my imperfecting spine. Place
my corpse in the fermenting ground
until the Earth has had its fill, until
the mycelium has eaten well
and spread word of my demise. Age
my bones to usefulness and do
with them as you will. Be-table my femur,
adorn with my ribs and let me
breathe again. Rest my hips atop my feet
in a parody of eternal dance, set my skull
to watch above any sacred thing
or special thing or Tuesday thing.
Add my voice to the calcified choir
somewhere in the back and let me
sing of your life, your worth, your
deeply tethered soul and of the day
you join your voice to mine in
the harmony of the steadfast dark.