Sunflowers for the Pyre

If I go,

bury me

with sunflowers

from the backroads.

Scatter my hair

with the ashes,

or send me off

with gold

on my eyelids,

a wreath of broken glass

for the light to catch.

Downwind

of the graffiti dam,

past the debris,

into the lake.

Let the flames

kiss the surface.

Let the current

carry me

beyond memory,

beyond name.

---

The first few lines came to me out of nowhere.

I kept thinking about a kind of send-off, something ritualistic, almost like a Viking funeral, at Wallace Lake Dam (my favorite thinking spot). Graffiti fades and returns. The bayou smells warm and thick. Concrete, sunlight, and wind press together, and light catches on rough edges.

“And let the poets cry themselves to sleep.”

”