Grandmother Envisions Her Own Death

A white pillar will glow from the sand as I die. 
Those backyard trees will shake their empty pods 
against the sky. My moldy body will sink 
into its bed, smothered by sinners. 
In my red dress, I’ll trek upward on Elijah’s pearly ladder. 
Who says white is the only holy color? 

I plan to molt this old yellow skin 
like a papery snake, but without venom. 
In Paradise, my blue-breasted parakeets 
will sing me home. Mother will kiss 
my whitened eyes. My soul will glow with fire 
until my body’s reunion in the first morning. 

Mormon will polish his armor. Alma will awaken 
speechless, at my feet. At my request, 
Moroni will play “The Four Seasons” on his trumpet, 
invoking my Delbert to shuffle off his mortal body 
on the back row of the Creation Room, 
his abandoned flesh white as my eyes.