Should I tuck them in a casket,
sweet dead babies with well-fed tummies,
bouncing, blasphemous Buddhas?
Should I shut and seal the lid?
Or should I leave it open and listen to them
sing their sacred songs?
They have nowhere to go and don’t need me.
Or you. They’re dreams, is all.

And now they whisper,
“Little mother, you were kind to us.
Your heart is good. Your heart is ours.
But we are nothing but heart, beating here alone.
Remember, not all your dreams will come true,
and hard work and hope won’t bring bread to a table.
Now that we’re dead, a new age is born.
May it bring you peace.”