Sunday, November 1, 2009

I Get Thrush After Every Period

My son funeral ritual

My last will

The day I leave
and it will remain my carcass
burn it and collect the ashes

Put them in a grocery bag
(kraft paper, I do not like plastic) and rent a
tearoom

Place the bag on a table at

middle of the room and invite my friends to come dance around


By drinking and making fun of my
through reciting verses
and bellowing of bawdy songs

Then, store the bag in the closet and storage

ask my wife if she wants to join me
when his time comes

If she wants to, when the time comes

put her bag next to mine
well bonded to one another

So next spring,
pour the bags one inside the other
than a pinch of our ashes

that you keep in two separate jars

A morning Large sun
bring a shovel and looking round
a field of dandelions

Shake the bag vigorously to mix well
ashes
then pour it into the scoop

And one large circular motion
projecting them all around you

Thus we continue to see
rolling clouds and twinkling stars

while breaking our souls But

that's not all
among the ashes and spread
dig two small holes close

Pour into individual small pots
(those pinches, you remember,)
a seed, a single red poppy
for me
white daisy for my wife

Stir slightly to mix well
seeds with ash, pour

separately in the two small holes and cover with earth


Then sprinkle a little tear

enough to take the place of fertilizer

That I know my wife
daisy pushing
will curl around the poppy. And I

sign in front witnesses

Quebec, November 1, 2009

Jean Marcoux