Day of the Dead

Corpses howl in the streets, clacking corroded teeth, and I should be scared, but I’m not. I weave them marigold crowns, lie down among the headstones, call them to me to talk. We know secrets, we dead things. The only difference between me and them is I still have my skin.

Three drinks in because the only time I feel alive is when I’m high enough to hallucinate you.

They say I’m living the dream. What they don’t know is this was never my dream. My dream was me curled into the question mark of your body like an answer.

There is no rage left. Not at you. Just my insides rattling around like shattered glass. Just the sucking sound my rib cage makes 24/7, reminding me it’s empty.

Today, I ran until my lungs almost exploded, and when my heart was clobbering my chest, I fell in the grass, and looked up. Heaven was broken, slit into strips of gray and white. The air trembled. Night was coming, and the sky knew it. I slept and dreamed I was Lazarus, wrapping those clouds around me like bandages. You were Jesus outside the tomb, saying, “Come forth!” And I came, your blessed name on my lips.

You are Jesus, so build me a ladder to heaven.

You are Jesus, so build me a stairway to your face.

I will climb it, crawl into the amazing grace of your mouth, and sleep there, warm on the mattress of your tongue, my head propped on the pillows of your teeth.

The moon coats tombstones in white.

Stars slop light everywhere, and who cares?

You were the only sun that ever burned me warm.