with the spices of lives
and wrapping the image with
linen so tight the resemblance
to three generations, 5000 generations
removed will know the youth
I insist on preserving.
Bury my bones, girl. Under the tree
where you have been dreaming
the sheaves, bringing in
the soup kitchen, thankful,
shaming the satisfaction of broth.
"Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the Lord
has been good to you."