Spuds

 

 

As loved ones buried

grow nails and hair

past recognition,

 

a fistful of peelings

thrown slovenly to earth

came back in Spring,

 

leaving me to finger,

stunned as Crusoe,

a row of cold knuckles.

 

One, forgotten in the cellar,

turned pure alone

and grew a halo of white hair;

 

another, missed in the sack,

was lifted out

the shrunken head of Medusa.

 

When I kick the bucket,

bury me with spuds,

a sackful,

 

that I may spread

and come in a cloud of white

to your door.