It rarely matters who tells it.
Combed from the fur of
browning fronds, I braid
a prayer for you. Here.
Hold its bones
like grenade pins.
This November: a sharper whistle
than the last. I stand waist-deep
in earth’s womb with a flashlight,
ask, Is anybody home?
You must have stepped out. I need you
to know the supercut of us
had me crying in the club.
They burned you
into my name, but there were
days and nights and dawns
where I chose the soft beating of you
in my throat, a compass of sorts.
You lived in this body and
ripped the wallpaper out.
How do I mourn you
while remodeling. Even scars
blanch, surrender to spring
flesh. Our unsung
duets, closing their wet eyes
with the cracking sky. It rarely matters.
A good story takes
a village, a villain, a victor.
In mine, you are all three.