Lisa
Marie Zaran
Untitled
When
I die I want to come back
as a duck because ducks can fly
faster than cheetahs can run,
my teacher said.
Okay
son, I nod and let you believe.
I
let you believe in the flight of your heart.
After
my father died,
I had his body cremated.
All that remained was a package
of sand (not dust) the size of a child's shoe box.
I
paid cash for him
and buried him in
the back of a coat closet.
All
my friends at school have grandpa's
that can talk, my son moans, closing the door.
And
when you die, he tells a neighbor, full
of childhood wisdom. You turn into a box!
Oh
God. Come, let me hold you
while I still can. While your heart
still sits in a cage. Already you've
spent some time with flight and
your youth has gotten stained.
The
2River View, 4.3 (Spring 2000)
2River
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