I want to burn everything I own

repelled at the staggering piles of junk

accumulated over eight decades

stuff I can’t take with me

and who would want a gilded dog

or a garden gnome or a chipped ceramic vase

what of sixty pairs of ragged socks

certainly no need where I am going

 

I imagine a raging bonfire gobbling dishes

licking dresses, blazing couches

and black-burning brocade curtains

until there is nothing left

so my children don’t have to deal 

with fading photos and classical CDs

won’t have to box up thousands of books

they have no interest in

and lug them to a seedy second hand store

that won’t take any of them

 

What will they find when I am gone

an empty house with peeling paint

and dandelions invading the front lawn

a back door with a lost key

a kitchen window with cracked glass

and a second stair that creaks

will they remember?

will they look for me in the great black earth

where green shoots stir

or will they turn and walk away?