if you’re sleeping and not dreaming, you are dead

by Diane Wald

i am broken.
and my fissures have not been repaired with gold,
you can trace your finger along my faults,
and cut your fingers on me if you try.

i consulted a psychic,
but now i am annoyed
at the way she rooted around
in my labyrinths of time.

it might have happened anyway, who knows,
without the rain dance, the qijong, the meditations,

but i have absorbed the light, and now i know
that no one color is ever enough.

i shall be cremated in a paper dress
with some of my white ribs showing,
i’ll request a paper crinoline as well
in case there is dancing.

i might look out from my last bouquet of flames
and cry out like a marigold,
oh ganges take my hand.