1/29/2016
Funerals are for the living.
Grey and hazy we look through the tears in our eyes at what has passed before us.
A man I don’t know in a suit stands before us, telling us how to move our bones in the space like it is some kind of perfromance.
I guess it is.
I am tired.
I’ll be run dry before the day is over,
every time I
try to speak
or try to smile
or try to laugh,
I hear is his voice,
raspy,
old, yet full of life,
“Oh, is that right, doll.”
A smile always on the edge of it.
I have become the shroud around my shoulders.
I have turned into the bag hanging across my chest.
Maybe I can disappear inside these clothes,
Maybe I can go back to where they came from.
The scarf was plucked from a stand at a bus stop in Guatemala, I thought the soft color would be a good addition to my collection.
I never thought it would become this.
I gleaned the bag from a pile at Goodwill,
I knew it would become this.
Something that has held so much and been so many places.
It has held spray paint and words and snacks and adventures,
and now it is here, holding me together.
