Mummy Pendulum

A man’s last wish 
should be sacred. 

I want to be wrapped 
like a ball of roots 
in burlap and brown twine 
and left swaying 
from an oak branch 
on a long rope 
to soak up odors, 
storm dust, 
and heavy drops of rain, 
till the branch sags 
with my weight 
and I strain 
for the ground I grew on. 

Those who pass may 
pause at this plump bulb, 
may want to feel 
my wet fabric. 
I will leave the smell 
of loam and burlap 
on their fingers.

They may swing me 
with their hands; 
should they sense my longing, 
let them set the heft 
of whole bodies— 
shoulder, arm, and side— 
against my slow pendulum 
and leave me soaring 
with gravity and time. 
Let them push again; 
I am heavy with desire. 

As I measure time 
in slow circles, 
I will listen 
with inert eardrums 
for footsteps 
and storm wind, 
muffled voices 
and the fluttering of birds, 
while memories seep 
through my wrapped roots 
and something in me 
readies for replanting.