When they buried me they put all my statues
In the very ditch in which I was to be put. 
Next they put in my estate,
Then my eagles, followed by my horses.
Then my telephone, my raiment, and my whips,
Then my sons and my nephews.

Next they put the soldiers in that ditch, too.
They put my dogs, then my telescope, my bicycle,
And my favorite eating chair,
My cushion, my geographers, my cousins,
My skulls, my best singers. . .
They lowered in my favorite books of verse,
My bathtub, my livestock, my precious stones.
They lowered in my arms and my legs
And folded me in thirds.
They lowered in my chamber,
My fortress, my helicopter,
My bees, my armies, my scents, my rakes.

They gently put in my stomach, my genitals,
And all the beauty of this realm
And the realm itself.
And then the cosmos and the forms
And the gods and all of time
And all the love
That was meant for me and me alone.
From here it would start anew.


Photo by Iswanto Arif on Unsplash

Michael G. Donkin

Michael G. Donkin lives in Eugene, Oregon (USA). His writing has appeared in Chicago Review, The Brooklyn Rail, and The Lifted Brow.