I was seven when death’s deflation scarred my eye sockets.
It wasn’t opposite, only altered from every Mariachi band
dressed in golden velvets, ringing brass hearts so loud
the dead in us all quake. Energy passing between the sweet song
celebrating breath in every petal, alchemy of color. Now absence—
My father holds me by the bones, leads me under limelight
to a dead shiny Fir fashioned for shiny purple lips, pearls,
no white wings. The darkness is just a different kind of light…
I’m such an admirer of the soft glow of skulls now
I cradle one in my head at all times. Sometimes it will
remind me it’s closed away, yet close by; it knocks
against my teeth, swirls knots through my hair. Sometimes
it will ask me to give it a silk ribbon to play with, instead
I give it matchboxes, ask it to make firecrackers for lips.
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