pith…

When I’m done, love, when
the impalpable me has made his sullen exit,
scrape clean the meat from my bones. String it
in ribbons in the back yard trees. Wait
for morning rain and hear the glorified pigeons
attempt to sing. Summon then the odiferous
ones, the shunned ones, the old utilarians
who speak to no one, but whose sense
of dread and laughter and occassion
are legendary, who are wise to abhor
what rots in vain and dirty remembrance.
Then turn and hum a tune of your invention.
Ignore the slight song at your back
and follow your salted path home.
Rend there my considerable fat.
Sow it along the mud-slicked riverbank
for the wading birds to pick at and increase
their wanting knees. Arrange the bones
in an open field in the shapes of some ruined
ancient alphabet. Change the readings
to the cycles of your joyous body. They may
amuse the high birds of prey, confuse
the headings of curious pilots or commune
with an alien moon. Reserve a single
fibula for sharpening the knives with which
you dice our daughters’ green meals.
Make use of me, please.