The sun is getting flighty, and
I'm still eating ice, and shivering, and
eating more.
Pink eyes
for everyone in that chapel.
Crumpled tissues on the floor, glass stained blue,
I cried for her tree new in the ground
the leaves still shaped like hearts.
B changed his nice shoes for boots
and as I waited he told me they were
Wedding and funeral shoes.
"I've only worn them five times. Now six
I think that was both.”
Who did she marry?
Her depression?
Or is it the survivors marrying grief,
marrying a crater?
The chapel marrying
its blue windows to the sky--
Marry me, suicide
and I will hold you until your ribs break
and your strings of sadness don't
I will hold you through skinny lightning
will hold your Norse vigil
will hold your only real question in my hand
and forgetting it's there,
worry it to shreds.
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