Cherry Glass
Cielo Lee
To the funeral officiant:
set a pile of stones
on the fertilizer over my head,
for I am not a witch,
and a cherry tree
atop my chest
so that the squirrels
can eat the fruits of my sincerity.
On a sunny field of broken rocks,
pass around a paper
and tell those sitting surrounded
by empty plastic seats:
on tree skin write memories
of times when you startled a laugh out of me,
or shook my veil of skeleton leaves loose,
when we created dressing out of oil and water.
Veiled in shade, black-shined shoes
stepping on pine needles,
pass around a second piece
and tell my friends and family:
on it recall memories
of times when I lost my spirit,
and you gave me your shoulder,
let me lean in and breathe.
Pull together tears across
your faces with a stained glove.
Copy these and bury the original with me.
With shaking hands pass around a third
but on this do not write memories,
instead write the secrets I shared.
So that everything
I have ever hidden unjustly
may be thrust into the open.
Hand this to a stranger passing by,
tell them to read it with conviction.
In case of one too many secrets divulged,
bring handkerchiefs and a bodyguard;
people will know me for a fraud.
Before casting me beneath gnarled roots,
build me a casket with stained concrete
And ripple-patterned cherry wood,
accent it with my clarinet’s African blackwood.
Upholster it with shed cat fur
And hamster bedding;
pull me to safety.
This is what will house my body.
To those attending my funeral:
do not somberly place wilting flowers
on a repetitious granite gravestone;
instead pick blossoms
and spit pits of cherries
into your palms lined with weariness and age.
Plant the pits somewhere
that humans have wrecked.
Smile and remember fondly the mistakes I’ve undone for you.
For my sake, if not for yourself,
understand that your actions are your own.
Listen to grief but never assume
that you are filled to the brim with it.
Others will love you
all the more for your grit.
Finally, read what I have read
a thousand times over;
shift all your phantoms to the side,
live for a little while someplace new or nonexistent,
fall into a book-sleep in daylight.
read what I have written
to see that my feelings are not grave-bound.
Pull on a gathering thread,
Hook it onto who you love,
forget the dread you likely felt
driving to my funeral.
In each book of life to the next
In an endlessly expanding library,
feel free to spell out your worries
and reflect them on shards of broken glass.