When I die will I be transformed into
a falcon of gold, into a dusty blue-tailed
swallow, into a heron standing sentinel
at the edge of the marsh? I look through
the Egyptian Book of the Dead for a spell
to help me remember not only my name
but each thing of delight I have tried to make
in this world, and the shape and pulse of this
flawed but beating heart. The indentations
left by all I love pock its ruddy surface—
I feel the sting of every moment that leaves
its mark, careens from high to low, stuns
itself against a pane of window glass,
before staggering back up again.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
