My Whole

When I am dead, my dearest
Please speak the truth of me.
Do not say I was an angel, hauntingly lovely and as pure
As our child’s half-open mouth as he sleeps.
Instead, shout loudly of my hammering anger,
My scalpel-fine meanness
My earth-flattening depression
The loneliness I carried in my mouth.

I no longer care to hide.

Then, spare a moment for the rest:
My room-illuminating smile
My irresistible humor
The heart-hurting compassion I kept mostly hidden.

In death, let me be more real and complete than in life.