Bury me with a glass coffin.
No grass and dirt,
so my girl can see my bee stung lips (all mine, swear to God) and eternal eyelashes for the rest of time.
Let my truth be forever etched in stone.
A wayward wife,
an unfit mother,
too Catholic to swallow,
too gay to be a “real” Catholic,
a bit too mixed race to be a “real” Brit,
just as bad in Spanish as she was in English,
but a laugh when drunk.
Don’t leave me chrysanthemums,
don’t let them wither and die in the waning moonlight.
Leave poppies in their place,
so my girl can fall asleep,
looking at my face,
after all that time.