Crows have been observed gathering around the bodies of dead crows,
sounding calls of panic.
When I die, throw me a crow’s funeral.
No eulogy, no poems or psalms.
Leave behind the candles and hymns,
the hypnotic chants at vespers,
the bound and hammered hands of Christ.
Let the company assemble outside,
bareheaded beneath the sky,
weeds and dirt the only altar cloths,
the dying oak, still rooted in the soil,
casting a chuppah for the Shekinah.
Cluster, beloveds, around my urn.
Then, in turn, mimic the outraged
cries of crows, their shrieks for the dead.
Scream until alarmed birds rise,
bowing a black shroud, a rent,
a tent to accept my soul.