Healing Will Not Look the Way You Want It To

I was seven when death’s deflation scarred my eye sockets,
not opposite, only altered from every sweet Mariachi band song

celebrating the breath of a petal, alchemy of color with absence.
The band always dresses in golden velvets, ringing brass hearts

so loud, the dead in us all quake. My father holds me by the bones,
leads me under limelight, a dead shiny Fir fashioned for shiny purple

lips, pearls, no white wings. The darkness is just a different
kind of light
… I’m such an admirer of the soft glow of skulls now,

I cradle one in my head at all times. Sometimes it reminds me
it’s closed away, but close by; it knocks against my teeth, swirls

through my hair, sometimes it will ask me to give it a silk ribbon to play
with. Instead, I give it matchboxes, ask it to make firecrackers for lips.


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