If I Die First

“. . . Store me beside the poetry.”

Sarah Russell

No one could give better instructions than Wendy DeGroat does in this poem.  Her chapbook Beautiful Machinery was published last year.  You can read more about Wendy here.

After the burning’s done, pour
what’s left in a Mason jar—nothing new,

but one washed clean of applesauce or pickled beets,
the clear kind that kids keep fireflies inside.

Let my cinders rest there
like sand art in jelly jars carried home from the fair.

If the small or gray of me unsettles you,
pin flannel or fleece around the glass,

leaving a gap, thumb-wide, under the rim, enough
to let sun and moonlight in. Store me beside the poetry.

When it feels right, talk to me, sing, or sit by quietly.
For a wheel of seasons, take me down. Hold me open—

to campfires, fallen leaves, a lilac’s laden bough.
Press me deep in moss and snow.

When my birthday comes, add a pinch of salt,
toast to us with good bourbon or dark rum.

And when you’re ready to move on, release me somewhere
we once were. As dust blurs through your fingers,

quick or slow, know I miss your touch, and let me go.

– Wendy DeGroat
  First published in Rust + Moth

20 thoughts on “If I Die First”

      2. Thanks, Emily. It’s one of my favorites. The poet Wendy DeGroat feels what her partner will feel so vividly and simply. I’ve never been able to read it aloud, because I cry every time.

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      3. Thanks, Della. I don’t think I saw your comment way back when you wrote it. It’s Wendy DeGroat’s poem, not mine, but I sure wish I had written something so simple and profound.

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  7. You teared me up, My Dear!!! The Badge of a Great piece!! Thank you for awakening those emotions in my heart!! Deep gratitude!!! Bellissimo!! Thank You!! 🌹🌹😊
    xoxoxo
    Chuck
    xoxoxo
    Chuck

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    1. Chuck, I wish I could claim this. It is Wendy DeGroat’s poem. Like you, I cry every time I read it. I’ve put it on the list of what I’d like read at my memorial service.

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