When I’m gone you can toss my ashes
into the Winooski River or misplace them
among the boxes in the shed; whatever. For now
I am daughter only to a working dog,
a shepherd with one blind eye and an ethic.
He remembers he loves me each morning
and howls when I leave for work.
When my mother died I found the things
she’d collected for the apocalypse:
canned beans and bandages. She was ready,
I guess, but it made me sad to think
of her living there alone—the whole world
having undreamt itself utterly,
the horizon in flames—wondering
what day it was, and whether I’d survived.
|Copyright © 1999-2018 Juked|