rest in stanza 

let's pretend the names
on the tombstones are poems.
maybe they're written
in another language neither
of us know-- but i like
the shape of them-- 
i appreciate their
use of center alignment & hyphens.

lay in front of one
with me & let's comment on
the purpose of the line breaks
or maybe the use of 
repetition-- last names dug 
over & over into stone
until they sound like a hymn
or a song bird's mating call
hurled into 
the surrounding evergreen trees.
maybe these stones are 
an appeal-- a request for 
people to stop turning
into lines on rocks for
young girls to make 
poetry out of.

i want to apologize for
all i've wondered about people
buried under my feet--
what colors they looked for
in a sunset-- 
what flavor of birthday cake
they liked best-- if they
used box mixes--
if they ate their 
scrambled eggs with ketchup &
if they notice the fake flowers
& little american flags people
plant around their tombstones.
Maybe they feel their decorations like 
broaches pinned onto their chests.

i imagine it would be difficult 
to rest in peace
with all the foot steps
coming down through the grass--
toddler sandals & 
grandmother church shoes &
the sneakers of joggers
who power up
cemetery hill to sweat 
like oak trees in september.

when i die i hope 
i die inconspicuously like how
the trees lose their leaves--
one at a time until their bodies
are all over the ground--
crunching under your feet
& making the air smell maroon &
amber & clementine--

i want to be around you
all at once-- caught in a
merry-go-round of wind--
flailing in browns & golds--
burning like september's
sun stuck in the memory
of june.
i want you to make poetry out
of me-- out of every 
stanza i become.
i don't want to be a line
in stone but you 
can make me a poem--
a metaphor-- the personification
of the patches of unruly
grass in the graveyard where
the the mower doesn't reach--

stick pinwheels in my dirt
so you can watch me race the wind--
i'll meet you again when 
all the leaves are sleeping
as bookmarks-- dog ear
this page & come
back when we're both listening
to feet fall above our heads--
turn pages of stone-- 

say each name like a song bird
shouting maroon into the sunset
to look for someone to make
sense of his own voice--