My Headstone
I told my husband that when I die
I want one of our artistic friends
to do my headstone. I want mine
handmade, almost like it’s folk art.
Not granite with a sheen, no perfect
inscription chiseled. Let the angel
in outline be primitive, sharp wings
to jut up, in darkness like devil horns.
Let’s use some cheap concrete mix,
blend in pages from my unread books,
add in shells and pebbles I saved from
trips to beaches and walks in woods.
My husband warns me such a marker
could soon wear away. Yes, I say, yes.
Ronnie Sirmans is an Atlanta digital media editor whose poems have appeared in UK-based publications Blackbox Manifold, Peeking Cat Poetry, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Dublin-based Impossible Archetype, and various US journals.