When I die, tell me I was wrong. Say, even in a field where nothing grows, I should have kept myself planted; like lichen waiting for resurrection on sere stone. When I die, when I am no longer here for you to tell me, tell me what it’s like to find love. Tell me it’s like leaning back against something sturdy. Like a home. Shout it again and again in my done ears. When I die, my heart quiet as a Sunday, like love, let lightning strike me. Like love, let it drink in the sweetness of my overripe flesh. When I die, my corpse an ache to see, tell me the green thumb of a lover stroking my bare breasts would have moved me. Say a dusked light slipping past my bare hip would have filled me with courage. Say on a night with no end in sight, a lover and I speaking with our tongues against the braille of each other’s throats, say it would have healed me. Say rightly would they have loved me. Say they would have lovingly held my bones. Say the beams of the house were made of cedar; and the rafters were made of pine. Say I should have waited. Been faithful. Like lichen. Say love was just about to strike me. Say love was just about to draw water from the stone.
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