savor the honey
          entering my ears,

soothing my voice
          raspy from years

          seeing-and-sawing
          between two tongues:

          English and Spanish
          Spanish and English.

Don’t bury me in a cemetery,
          where money will continue
          to measure my space,

          my time, your love, too—
          who comes to visit

who cleans my grave,
          who brings me flowers,
          who does not,
as well.

An olive tree
       can flourish
       in foreign soil

       and spread its branches
       around otherness.

And yet,
       I can’t cut my roots,
       discard my fruit,

       and still quench the thirst
       of the carriers of my oil.

Turn me into ashes, instead,
          and let me scatter and fall
          in between crevices in high cliffs,

          on the foamy shoulders of gentle waves,
          on the wings of butterflies

          pollinating purple prairie clovers.
          I’ll be free; I’ll go high

          till I reach the stars and become
          one, shining bright,

          looking down
          from the heaven of the universe.