Bones

Don't bury me here, please
I cannot bear
to bare
these bones to the years
of cold stone and silence
that fill you up with the emptiness
of windchimes on breathless days.
No one will mourn me here
so far from the sea.

Let me retire to the tropics,
bury me among the tangled weeds of the dead,
love-vine wrapped around
the roots and shoots
of my ancestry.
I want the messy grave where
loved ones trek and hunt
the past treasures of memory
in crooked stones,
sheep and goats keeping
silent night watch,
eating paths between graves.

Let the blackbirds raise beaks in song
to remind me one last time
Bequia sweet sweet
Let those old church matrons sing
ancient hymns moving
over every crest of wave
and shake my soul with love.

Plant me under that shady tree,
Scatter these bones among friends,
parents and grandparents
who live in the salt of my tears.
Open me up to the sea,
salt and heat on flesh
one last time
before
you leave me for (the) dead.