Instructions

Illustration by Brendan Howells

When I die, steal my bones
and give some to Ophelia
so she can weave them
through her hands
like ashy-fragile pansies.

And give my clicking clacking
black-smoked finger joints and knuckles
to the children around my house
who pick all things up transfixed,
and know their bones inside by feel
so nothing is fearful in those cracking facts.
Just drop my brittle digits
in the play pails near their doors.
Mix them in with plastic toys
and other broken pink parts.

And take my pelvis,
that butterfly-bulbous
set of wings and perch it
on a wall somewhere, balanced
and Humpty Dumpty frightened.
Or, wedge it up
with rocks you’ll find
in someone’s weedy garden,
set in amidst the hum
of dandelions and yellow jackets.
All the color that hides
just for surprising.

And pour the nonsense sand of me—
my dust and dried white chips—
out in your travels,
forgetting where I am all spread.

But save my femur from the scatter
and stand it in an alcove.
Prop it up in a place
only noticed with desire.
Across the top knob’s
curving notch, lay a leaf
you find in passing,
a scrap made beautiful
in realizing something else.

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