Obituary
This is not my first time.
In the beginning it came
much slower – an itch
under my left foot, pain
between my legs,
emptiness in my throat
that dried my mouth
until I could only taste
skin.
2.
They set me on fire,
spread me
as dust. At night my mother
whispered prayers we’d never said
into my father’s ear.
Below them, under
the bed, the remnants
of a campfire.
3.
This is not my first poem. I’ve heard
others have turned
to art.
4.
Next time was a waste. I saw
what had happened
when I woke up. The residue
on my pillow,
thick and dark
like the blood from my nose.
I touched it, rubbed it
between my fingers, smelled it
to take in a piece
or waiting
for it to come again.
5.
It came. Swept in
through a crack in the window,
didn’t even hover
above me, just went
straight to my mouth.
