contort yourself, my dear, into the container —
into your contraption — do a little shape-change —
like my mother who at the wake became her coffin
(at which I’d stared and stared so as not to think of her inside)
roses my offering on her lid
petals, jars
(the poem as self-storage unit)
(O they will conflate you
with her smile, painted or not)
but here’s a secret — a woodcutter, a wolf,
the history of clinging to innocence in America
and another — the heartbeat inside the chest
(believe it: the illusion of art everlasting)
(the coffin your friend)