When I die leave me out on the corner 
like a slumped tweed sofa with wine stains
or the Christmas tree still looking
for her roots.

I have to admit that I love the soil.
I love worms. I love the August
that makes dirt into oatmeal into
grits-- into cream of wheat-- into
split pea soup after a storm. I'd love
to live there. Buried
to my neck like a sculpture--
like how they found the Sphinx--
broken nosed and peaceful like
a prize in a box of stale crackerjacks--
Yes-- I compared myself lifeless body
 to  a lioness-- 
Sadly, I have a bias.

I think the soil is for growing.
Maybe you can just plant my thumbs
I'd like that. Out by where
we tried to grow sunflowers
that died in a drought-- they would
grow spearmint trees and my children
would return with their children and 
point the thicket and say
"And that is your grandparent."

"How did they get so old?"
 
As far as I know my dead body will
not be doing much growing without my thumbs--
especially not sealed up in a casket
like a zip-lock bag-- save
the shoe box for the dead sunflowers--
everyone forgets the dead sunflowers. 
 
I'm purposing the family walks me
out to curb. If you already rented a hearse
Instruct the driver to take everyone for a spin
to get ice cream-- preferably 
Dairy Queen in honor of me.
Don't cry. Ice cream and crying 
get mixed far too often.
Tell them you're burrowing
the hearse from a friend and
buy a pineapple sundae for me.

Sit me out on the curb like something 
honorable. Like a tweed sofa
left over from a dorm room--
wine stained on the cushions that look like
a birth marks or rashes. Don't let
the garbage truck take me--

I want to be sat out 
with a sign that reads
"Free to a good home"
like accidental puppies
or Christmas trees.It will be easier 
for the angels to happen upon me
that way (assuming angels will
be looking for me).

I've heard sometimes they disguise themselves
as garbage men
or mail carriers-- they can pick
me up by the collar of my shirt--
take me to sit on another curb
outside of heaven.
When they arrive in January to
clean up the Christmas trees--
dust pans in hand for the needles--

When you all come back from ice cream
I'll be gone. No shovels.
No oatmeal dirt. No tombstone
with death scarred into its face.
Remember me and how I hated 
the mailbox. Send me letters if you think
of it and when a spear mint bush
grows in the front yard 
remember your parent grew from
their thumbs.

Remember that I was taken from
curb side with the Christmas tree--
Both of us left behind roots
that still grow spear mint. 
Sit on the tweed sofa
and eat the pineapple sundae--
melted from the car ride home.