by Christian Ward
And, should I go, please let only clover spring like a Jack in the Box
from my body. Do not attract postcard-perfect roses. No buddleia
and their lances of flowers nosing the air. No orchids, please (do not be seduced
by the Dracula simia's monkey face). No bird of paradise flowers to origami
mourners' hearts into kittens. Let the humble clover go viral from my ribcage
until the plot is greener than a night bingeing on Attenborough. Let them slip
past couriers and food delivery guys, turning patches green while another slice
of pizza is slid down quicker than the finger on tonight's Netflix selection.
Let the nitrogen flow until the rarest of trees and flowers are blooming
and it is broadcast on television sets of Glasswing butterflies. Let the leafcutter
ants say this is a gift on the sails of leaves on their backs and for the rain
and the wind to know this is all I could give.