I am but bones,
tucked into the dirt
like a child into bed.
My skin and sinew
long eaten away by
whatever else makes
this land their home.
I am all that remains
of the person who’s name
occasionally crosses the lips
of people who knew it before.
This resting place is
not the ends of my story—
my bones are a seed and
soon my season will come when
we’ll see me in full bloom;
my afterlife more fragrant
than past me could ever have imagined.
Right now, it’s still dark and cold,
but I am not dead, no,
instead I’m resting, recalibrating,
preparing for the day
my life is mine again and
my face will finally see the sun.
1988- 