George Washington Carver’s ashes
Have been sealed into a Skippy jar,
Revolving endlessly on a conveyor belt
Edgar Allen Poe is curled up in the fetal position
Hands beneath his ear for a pillow
H.G Wells is spooning with H.P Lovecraft
With their heads close and cold
Their dreams intermingle
Betty Crocker is preserved in a case of Crisco
To keep her skin soft
Shades of decay glow
in brown and bright red
Throwing billowing sails
from tall trees not quite dead,
but resting, new nude
before cover of snow
Autumn’s roots grip the earth
while her ornaments blow
She’s not sorrowful, possessive
for the jewels she will lack
are new fashioned each Spring
bright couture on the rack
Remember all her fireflies
Young heartbeats chased through dusky nights
Washed blue and gold
In guilded guise
That salted skin
And freckled thighs
The symphony of crickets coo
A song our fathers heard the same
Their fathers might’ve listened too,
Eternally she’ll chant her name
