car burial 

we hear the kings used to die 
with everything they owned.
when i slept in my car 
i collected small, brilliant joys.
counting the stars i could see
through the moon roof. my little hatch
into the sky. eating a sleeve 
of oreos & brushing the crumbs 
on the floor. every once in awhile 
a sheepman would come
& stare through the windows.
i would pretend to be a doll
until he left. holding as still
as i could. i know i am 
not a king but i have this hunger
to take my tiny delights with me.
it is like trying to walk
with a candle 
on your head.
i hold them like the wrangled necks
of plastic grocery bags.
here are my licorice ropes. here are
my frilled-edge socks 
& a lime green spoon from
the frozen yogurt place. i will
find a place i can just drive 
into the earth. somehow still
i think i will be able to peer
through the moon roof & see
stars in the dark & the soil.
there's no need for coffins
or boxes. i have my rust chariot.
i know i am not a king nor
do i want to be 
i just need to hold this glow. i just
need someone to know 
when they dig me up
that i was not always afraid.
sometimes i laughed 
by myself. i licked my fingers.
i locked the doors 
& never spoke my name 
into the dusk sky least 
it might come & take me.