come to my wake
dressed sharp as a lemon rind
the trimmings of a hollow season’s harvest
scattered on the floorboards and
crackling like the heartbeat
you’re wailing to hear,
cauterizing your tear ducts and setting
whatever dance-crazed soul upon you
that will bend your toes in the way of
the light. praise my coffin. praise your
gilded sorrow. praise the burn i swallowed
and offered you, generous, like the good
blood brother and spook i am. those who
merely pretended to know me will say
do not weep.
the real ones though, they’ll wring tie-dye
from their veiled cheeks and beat their chests
with thread, sepia, and tarred vinegar. take
us to heart, they will all sob, feeling too late
and too unworthy to do anything
but hold each other close and try
to find my laugh in the glistening peaks
of a hand tremor, or a shifty eye, or a quaking
voice. we see you, we finally see you,
come back! all my niggas will scream.
and thus, spitefully, i will release this tension
to a meadow of hewn, frothing cacti—
the apocalypse juice still warm and
sticky on the lips of anyone who has lately
kissed the dessicated earth and fell
upon her, bare and searching
for new ways to make her hum.
what i’m saying is i’m not coming
back. and i hope that hurts.