for the funeral planners

this poem is for the funeral 
planners like us--
the ones who plant hydrangea bruises--
the ones who write suicide 
notes in the morning
fog of car windows-- wipe
them away with our sleeves--
keep them for ourselves like
smeared lip-stick mouths on
the backs of our hands--
this is for the ones of us 
who let their turtles
run away wearing backpacks bulging with
 goodbyes
--this is for the people 
who watch snakes
slip into their cellars--
mouths full of yellow apple &
apology--
this is for the ones of
us who write our own elegies
other people will deliver--
the ones of us 
who imagine 
our mother's final words-- 
as empty as the frantic space 
in between the spokes of bike
tires-- this is for the funeral 
planners because we plan
other things too--
we plan lemon cupcakes
& walks on the bowed
heads of rocks
in the stream behind our house
-- we plan 
country callous bare feet roads-- 
we plan midnight bowls of 
fruit loops & we plan 
bouquets full of wildflowers
to leave on the kitchen table
for when our mothers come home
from work--
we plan edamame plants roots up from
the ground & sometimes we plan 
casual nights in the coffin--
the silk sides cradling us
gentle like a purple blown glass
vase-- i'm in the constant
process of finding
flowers to fill myself with
other than hydrangeas--
there's too many bruises to
fit inside my mouth--
swallow petals of blue & bone--
sometimes when i visit my parent's
house my uncle or my father
with fill my old room with fresh cut
flowers-- daffodils & tulips
& poppies--
they use beer bottles
& diet soda cans as vases &
i laugh alone seated on the edge of
my bunk bed because i live like the
cut throats of flowers--
a radiant burst of life with no
legs-- no roots to make fists with--
it is a tired thing to plan so many
funerals & cancel them--
take the invitations out
of mailboxes & toss the hydrangeas
out your bedroom window--
scrape the elegies away
from the inside of your forearms--
we plan mornings & breakfasts 
of soupy oatmeal & we plan 
tired golden delicious
apples-- 
we plan matching socks 
& our favorite pair of underwear with
the dinosaurs on it--
this poem is for the people
who are strong enough to
unplan funerals-- we live
briefly from vase to vase
& sometimes get our necks
caught in diet soda cans-- 
bloom brief with me