When my body turns to dust,
I want the earth to know it.

My knees will filter sunlight,
sparkling shards of broken glass
to feed the turned, fallen leaves.

From my hands will rise a steam,
lost from ghosts of wilted dahlias
and pulling beads from snail shells.

Softening footsteps in numbing silence,
my scalp will take root in boulders:
a lichen stretched anew.

The crunch of my nails will lilt,
a filling sound which bleeds the heart.

My heart, itself, a rotten composition
(spoiled as tender and cloying fruits)
will slip through Her fingers,
drench Her purpose in richness,
and swallow my searing in depth.

My skin, taken first as appetizer,
breeds microcosms of tiny dancers
and will never forget that feeling.

Collapsed and empty, one lung and the other
will cease to feed themselves,
twisting from entrepreneur to altruist.

Other sundry organs, bones, hair and ligaments:
a donation of retribution,
payment for what was stolen,
recompense for an unforgivable abuse.
It is all I have, and it will be everything.