Poetry Bus: "Not yet"

Not yet, Yorick,

don't clean my bones,

someday, but not yet.

Someday, you may bury me

in rainbow socks

to feel our dance.

Burst bubbles

like a belly laugh

crests the surface of a lake.

Bounce a rib-bone
like heartbeats,
on a drumhead of goatskin.

Wind me 'round
with beads of amber
breasts to navel, warm as sun.

Store rain enough
to quench thirsty kisses
in desert glass of O'Keefe's sunsets.

My genes alive beyond
my life won't recall
nursing from my breasts,

sleeping in my crescent lap,
nor private words of lullabies
to quiet tearful nights.

Someday, they might
wash my flesh,
cold and heavy, but not yet.

They may dress my remains

in a tie-dyed tee,

and tomboy's cut-off jeans.

But for a princess
of the earth, please add a
crown of flowered wreaths.

They will smell my ashes

in the smoke,
heft my bones to rattle.

But I am cycling as
the full moon glows,

and the insistent, crisp wind blows,

as guitar notes strum,
as pen and paper hum.
I’m still saving my life,

not to lose it yet.
Not my bones, poor Yorick,

don't clean them yet!

Chris Alba, at Enchanted Oak HERE hosts this week's poetry bus.  Her prompt is:
Poems that address your existence on this earth. Good, bad, or indifferent, tell us something, anything, about your life here.

Poetry bus comes from blogger Totalfeckineejit  http://totalfeckineejit.blogspot.com/

("Alas poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio." a famous quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, in which the subject of the play holds the skull of his nursery servant, jester, and castle clown in a graveyard at night.  In certain southern Mexican communities, and in Pomuch on the Yucatan peninsula, the bones of the ancestors are exhumed on the Day of the Dead, "Dia de los Muertos", cleaned, redressed with new clothing, fresh food and favored items, to be reburied again.)