Instructions for My Burial Clothes
Sometimes I dream
Dolly Parton is my aunt.
I’m about twelve.
She comes to visit
at Easter,
brings me chocolates,
jelly beans
and makeup.
My mother frowns,
hurries around the kitchen
with other female relatives—
they are all wearing sackcloth.
Dolly sits beside me,
plays a guitar and sings,
her long red-glittered nails
click against the frets.
When I say,
“Do not bury me in a suit,
I want to go out in sequins,”
my mother shakes her head,
wonders where I learned such excess.
*"Instructions for My Burial Clothes" was published in Karen's collection Sassing.