When I die, lay me down under a willow tree by Peyton Michelle Bryant

When I die, lay me down under a willow tree
facing my mountains dressed in blue.
Bury me in the costume jewelry
my grandmother gave me-
a ring on every finger
two on each pinky and thumb.
Put me in the ground with my pewter wolf
still nestled in the hollow of my throat
and my sword around my neck.
I don’t want a fancy coffin;
leave me to the crows I loved so much in life.
Let my body be my final gift to the land.
Promise to only tell the truth.
Tell the truth of how I burned.
Sometimes like the sunlight
that peppers your eyelids with kisses
in the dog days of summer-
some days like a wildfire
devouring everything in it’s path.
Tell them of how my rage
blazed as hot as my love
but I never let it hold me for long
and I couldn’t hold a grudge
to save my own damn life.
Tell the truth of how I was a pain in the ass
and would argue a point
until I was blue in the face
but damn it, did I make life more interesting.
When I die, I want you to throw the biggest party
this town has ever seen.
Only the most outrageous outfits will do!
If I look down to an ocean of black at my wake,
I swear I’ll haunt you all.
Play my Inner Summer playlist
on a speaker at my funeral;
turn up the volume as loud as it will go
and dance.
When I die, tell my children
that they hung the moon and the stars in my sky.
Tell them that they were the greatest thing
I ever created.
Tell them that I’ll see them again someday
in some other way
but that until then,
they’ve got one hell on wheels kinda angel
protecting them on the other side.
When I die, cover the ground where I lay
in wildflowers and scribbled lines of poetry.
Put crow feathers, coyote hair, roses and honey next to my picture on the family altar.
Leave the thorns on the stems.
On Sunday mornings,
pour a cup of black coffee on the Earth.
Right there in my favorite spot
where I spent so many afternoons
watching the birds dance and play.
Plant butterfly bushes.
Right there, where I held a ruby throated hummingbird in the palm of my hand
and felt the pulse of God herself
through a blanket of green feathers.
Give my words away.
Pass my journals down to my grandchildren;
let my spells live on in the hands and hearts
of the generations to come after me.
Tear out all of my head in the oven poems
written for that one lover that got away
and mail them to his door.
Stamp two wolves on the envelope
and tell him how I wished for so long
that we had more time.
Tell him that I’ll see him in another life
in a den underground.
Let these pages tell a living story
of each time I cradled heartbreak in my hands and still dared to love again.
When I die, let our love keep you warm
when sadness comes to call.
Let grief in the front door
(don’t make her search for the spare key)
Let her soften your sharp edges.
Let her crack you open
and remind you to live your life
like this is all going to end.
Because one day, it does.
If we’re lucky,
this life will have been enough-
a spark in the dark that lit a thousand flames.
A story that will live on
in the blood and bones
of the ones we leave behind.
When I die, may the life I lived
be the flare that lit the match
of a torch called freedom.
May it be the best story I ever birthed
from the tip of my pen.
May it be the permission slip to be bold.
May it be the heart song that sets my lineage free.

- Peyton Michelle Bryant

More from Peyton Michelle Bryant ↓

* @mama.laloba on Instagram

* Peyton Bryant on Substack

* Her book, Feral Mother, Sovereign Woman, is out now

You can listen to me read another poem by Peyton, I don’t know who god is exactly but I know this, over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure

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