The letter I wrote you is lying on my desk
underneath a vase of fresh flowers
How hard it is to assemble dry leaves for a cemetery,
when the desk has too much to hold-
I understand its urges
(especially when the post office faces the window of my room)
and detect some outside compassion:
the feathers I found upon my return from a weekend,
formed into a plumage—
a gift from the bird that never cared to leave me a feather.
So I disjoined them and threw them at her
who has stopped visiting since.
But you don’t worry
you’re invited to this grave, upon my death.
And if you care, I permit you to dig it out,
fun you’ll have finding and conjoining the words
some of which would have fallen under the desk,
some behind my books with a photo of you,
some mixed up in pulverized leaves,
and some clung to the closed window.
Oh yes, if that bird happens to be alive,
let her in.
And remember not to ask people about my own grave—
it won’t be separate.
Source: Romi Jain, Poems from Conflicted Hearts, 2014.