When I Die . . .

Don’t celebrate my life.
Do so now,
while I can still

savor the honey
entering my ears

soothing my voice
raspy from years

seeing-and-sawing
between two tongues:

English and Spanish
Spanish and English.

Don’t bury me in a cemetery,
where money will continue
to measure my space,

My time, your love, too—
who comes to visit

who cleans my grave,
who brings me flowers,

who does not, 

as well.

An olive tree
can flourish

in foreign soil
and spread its branches

around otherness.
And yet,

I can’t cut my roots,
discard my fruit,

and still quench the thirst
of the carriers of my oil.

Turn me into ashes, instead,
and let them scatter and fall
in between crevices in high cliffs,

on the foamy shoulders of gentle waves,
on the wings of butterflies

pollinating purple prairie clovers.
I’ll be free; I’ll go high

till I reach the stars and become
one, shining bright,

looking down
from the heaven of the universe.