And now I see her in a box,
the girl I was back then.
I stand beside the glass cocoon
where the body’s stretched out
inside, run my hands along
its cold crystal ceiling. Auroras
in the mind light up, color bleeds
across this sky’s membered flesh.
There is no lid or seam to pry
my fingers through. The corpse
won’t be tampered with. What’s
done is, and where do you go
from here? Glance back. Snap
a pic like any good museum rat,
note the still life made
of her features, the constellating
gaze of dead lips and eyes. You’ve
dressed her in her best baptismal
whites, wads of lilies, pink-pearled
ribbons orbit her,
a horseshoe yoke
the winning beast and rider wear.
Birthed blooms circle her skull,
the gaping sex of them
sewn to a crown embalmed
in time. Signaling the end
of a very long race, years
of struggle and what you
fought for erased. At what
you thought was the finish line.
Listen to this poem:
