Do not say a prayer, shed a tear,
nor place a wreath on my grave,
but bury me instead under a mangosteen
tree once I’m stiff like lead.
Once I’m dead, drip mangosteen milk,
and wring the sweet white arils
till its juices soak
my funeral shroud. And when I die,
embalm my head and tuck
my teeth in black-purple rind,
let the mangosteen roots coffin
my bones, skin and spine.
When night comes, let me rustle the leaves
with my ghostly arms, and let me
scare the thieving monkey that climbs
on its fruit-bearing branch.
Once I’m freshly dead and buried under
the fallen fruits, let the soil and grass
pickle my heart and liver
in mangosteen’s heavenly pus.
Mona Zahra Attamimi
First appeared in Mascara Literary Review – Issue Eleven – June 2012