Let my brothers look through my books first. Even the ones I've borrowed and never returned. This is important.
I want you to touch my dead face. Just so you can take it with you that it's all real. Yes, her cheek is cold. Yes.
Someone tell the story of the first day I saw a loon dive.
you have my secrets, please keep them. And one day when you're old, you
can reminisce about this one time there was this one girl who died. How
sad, you might think. And if you remember then, at that moment, tell
the world. Until, put my words in a quiet box.
I am not surprised. I'm the kind of girl who gets rabies. And who breaks
her foot before the race. I'm magnetic in all the wrong ways. I feel
things too much in my bones. I fall in love with all vibrations. I feel
that blue collar catastrophe, personally. I want a sharp hair line and
the kind of collar bone that perfectly spills into shoulders. Maybe beer
on the couch is best. Or red wine in the morning, in a coffee mug. And
stars beaming through electronics. I'm that kind. The ruiner kind.
First, she lets you remember the sun
on your ex-lover's back as you fold
into each other like fresh
laundry near the window.
She whispers. And you, you remember
the contours as he moves like sound-
Next, she brings out
her weapon; possibly a shank, sharp
like November nights when frost can slice
you slant-wise along your ribs.
Gentle and quick-like, she splits
your neck; a cheap smile to an empty room.
(Brace yourself, baby, it's gonna’ sting.)
Finally, blood laps against your feet; one last
Tennessee lake as you sit.