When I Die
call the cooks
the old Indian women
who cook for every wake
buried to their elbows
in flour and lard
laying out flat
the bread the plates
"anee," the old ones scream
they weep like herons
pack up all my possessions
give them to mourners
waiting in line
give my bedding
to the thin-chested
give my clothes
to children without shoes
leave my house
only its windows
"enit," we say when we want it
we want it all
bury me alone
in old blankets
"bones," we whisper in stick games
we all get to choose
Sherman Alexie......from The Business of Fancydancing
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