Jessie is 90, hobbled to a walker
since falling, breaking her hip.
In her garden, a collage of anti-war posters.
On the doorstep, a life-size, cardboard cutout
of naked George W. Bush.
A sign covering his crotch reads:
“The Emperor Has No Clothes.”
She has discarded two useless “wasbands,”
lost a third to cancer, now lives on her own.
Raises herbs, hyacinths, hell.
Quotes poetry while filing a lawsuit
to allow burial in the comfort of her front yard.
“Dig a hole; plant me under a rosebush,” she insists,
“I’m not that big.”
She has spent the last decade
fighting against corporate personhood.
Now county officials say she needs
to fill out paperwork, declare her property
a cemetery, herself a corporation.
“This is bullshit,” Jessie explodes.
“All I want is to die in peace,
fertilize my own lawn.”
In Between Hangovers 