When I have died, come find me on the planet of
feverish with rings and whole days spent howling
the syllables of your name,
heron nests floating in mid-space,
my footprints in the metallic dirt.
Come and tell me about our children.
Tell me about our babies and if the little one
is still praying for Dalmatians and
What did you tell her when I died?
Where did you say I went? Braiding tree bark in
the maples or perhaps a goat sitting sweet in a beach
hut, lambs for friends. I’ll be okay. Tell her.
Whisper to her—that first warm flesh
like soft apples in your arms.
Tell her the planet is spreading
outward and will one day
share the seawater,
share the rings bruising against
— Megan Fernandes, author of The Kingdom and After
T. S. Poetry