Monday, April 18, 2011

Coming Up Roses


Someone told me that when her hysteria and thin steel split the shapes
you held between your skin cells, the knife became hot.
Nobody really knows what grief stifled her past with such a
viking's angst―to cause those tears, that night, to sharpen into daggers
and separate your arteries.

You ran away like summer sap for the first time
after she killed you.


I hear a piano, Elliott. I hear your tickle like the color white
being carved into a charcoal so deep―it is singing―
growling, bleeding through shadows and swinging
like the droplets. I spilled them, Elliott―I spilled you.
I'm sorry.

Was what she wrote―was what she wrote
and shoved in a hole and never looked back.


At the cremation the music had gone, just like ostriches chirping
and stopping, then snapping at something.
I watched us watch the coroner
grasp your temples and thrust you into the chewing fire. It was like biting
a lit cigar and slowly growing numb―never quite getting feeling
in that one spot back.
Never quite knowing how fucking funny the whole damn thing looks from there.

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