Body of relics, antique burials,
and sleeping in the catacombs of the pantry

When I die I want you to take
apart my body like a saint--
No-- not like Saint Clare 
I know my body is already corruptible--
I've already seen my finger nails 
drop like marigold fire--
this is me dying like the tongue
of the flame I am-- 
I have already begun to decompose--
felt my skin yellowing
like newspapers wrapped
around chipped tea-cups--
in the field of antiques 
we peruse to find a lover--
I want to leave myself in pieces
to make you want to put me back together--
collect me in your pantries
and in the corners of your
book shelves and tell your children
about how 
I died and fell into thousands of fragments--
I was never a whole body
so don't bury me like that--
blow my ashes in the face of King--
I'm sleeping in the catacombs of the pantry--
behind the Bisquick and 
the solid bag of brown sugar boulders
we'll break into muffin tonight--
the rocky cliffs of Main where
the ocean's knuckles bleed on the rocks--
I sleep in a 1/4 measuring cup
and wonder if you'll consider
turning my ashes into brownies
or pepper spray--
blind a back alley with my remnants--
these are the catacombs of a baker--
I mistake the dried chicken noodles 
for my own hair-- my own
cubes of white meat--
All the while Saint Clair
is still waiting to wake up
again so she can cut her hair
to fill mason jars-- she sleeps
in a terrarium-- body untouched
and frozen in cubes of white meat--
I saw her on the picnic blanket
at the antique market and wondered
who would have enough money to buy
a whole body--
I wondered if they would
take her apart in pieces--
turn her into a wax
sculpture to put a wick between her fingers--
light these Saint bodies into 
candles--
burst marigold and 
remember the locks of my
bleach-scorched hair--
Don't feel bad about saving my
bones for soup--
I don't want to be preserved 
I want to be part of something
again-- spit me into the soil--
we're not cannibals-- we're lovers
and to love something you
need to take it apart into pieces--
make it into bracelets and 
brownies
and lay my body to rest 
in the pantry behind the Bisquick
where everything is quiet
as the roots of a marigold--
the inside of Saint Clare's
terrarium--
she wanted to be fire like
the rest of us--
So when I die I hope you will
remember me when you
see my locks of hair 
on blankets at a fleet market--
don't spend too much money on
my relics-- they're barely antique--
put my finger nails on your mantel 
and wait for them to become
candles--
don't believe them when
they tell you 
any of us were incorruptible--
I was decayed before my skin
wrapped a chipped tea cup--
I was a puff of ash 
before I knew how to move my femurs--
a tentacle of incense--
to remind you that there
is a God who burns our
hair like wicks--
She is lips puckered in marigold--
she has collected the chips
fallen from tea cups--
she keeps
our pieces her her book shelf--
behind a cliff made
of a brown sugar--
sits and counts our hairs
like waves.