When You Die, I Tell You

Your soul is crossing the river naked

where the water is sweet and comfortably deep

and if you stretch your arm over the side of the raft

the warmth of the river sticks on your skin.

Somewhere above is the house your grandparents lived in,

and you can smell the garden plants

you can’t name, but will always remember

the scents of a fading afternoon

and the memories fill the hands as a fistful of water

slipping away.

This gradual release feels like a rope being unwound,

feeling the colors come undone,

feeling the drift from one bank to the next.

You are not traveling on this river; this river is down hill

from where you want to be and how deep is it?

You’ve got to make it back to Concord, Massachusetts.

Being midway between the river and the house

it’s difficult to imagine what either extreme feels like

and then you are thinking about how difficult it is to pass

from one raft to the next when you see your soul down hill

lose balance and start to fall and begin to worry

how deep was the river?

I walked into the water until it tugged at my shirt,

drew me closer, whispered just like you.

If I could join you, join myself, join everyone,

the scent is sweet, the plants drowned

in the shallow waters of each spring’s flood.

December 10