What happens to my notes
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Last Wishes

These are the shoes I will be buried in.

And this, my favourite shirt—the small
luxury of black velvet, black as my heart
but soft as my repentance has made me.

How I loved this shirt in my twenties,
its wide, peasant sleeves, the silver-red
brindled brocade upon the chest.

These are the shoes I will be buried in.

And the herringbone jacket my father bought me.

Though my body became too broad to wear the jacket,
fold my father’s love gently
and use it as my pillow.

These are the shoes I will be buried in—

the shiny black leather of my father,
his humble size which I fit into perfectly,
and wore only in Church, following his steps.

And these, the olive vestments of night and daybreak
in the sheen of light’s forgiveness

that I may ask forgiveness one last time,
that I may bless my children one last time,
that I may give and be taken,

these, the olive vestments of night and daybreak
to wrap and clothe me finally
that I may sleep and wake.

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