Who Are Your Dead

Would it be illegal to shoot my body off
into the sky, Houdini-roped to the world’s
largest firecracker? I want the bursting and

the hues and the ashes to be swept across
canopy tops, carried by every sweet Mariachi

band song, they’ll always be there, always
dress in velvets, ringing brass hearts so loud,

“Healing will not look the way you want it to”
the dead in us all rattles awake. Once, my
father held me by the bones as he took me to

the polished box on a stage, under the limelight
it was Snow White’s wakening, but fluorescent

light morphed death’s beautiful slumbering. I was
seven when I scarred death’s deflation in my sockets.

I’m such a lover of skulls now, I cradle one
in my head at all times. Sometimes it will remind
me it’s still closed away, but close by. The shiny

skull will knock against my teeth and swirl in my
hair. Sometimes it will ask me to give it a silk ribbon

to play with, string through my ears, sometimes
I give it matchboxes, ask it to make firecrackers for lips.


2 thoughts on “Who Are Your Dead

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