I leave you this hole in the ground, the Sunday garbage –
Sacrifices laid inside buzzing boxes. Time. Wanton children.
They will blame us for heaven. Not all ideas are equal. As it happens
God is completely able to be mocked. He will eat your children
either way and lick the fat from his chubby fingers. Bury me with
blue jeans in every size, 27 boxes of toys the children never played with,
and maps to exotic locations. You never know. Find 34 lipsticks (even if the
color’s wrong), 18 mismatched lampshades, and broken tiles for make-believe
mosaics. Instead of skulls they will find us chinking with plastic water bottles
and rows of last year’s cell phone, our hills made of hollow webcam eyes.
I hope they will call us savage, teach their babies to walk barefoot in the
grass. I hope they still make mountains out of eyes.