You wore black to my funeral
And so, with closed wide-eyes turned out,
I stared at the bent backs
and cataracts, without a sound.
Days, weeks, years
went by, before I laid on your bed
with closed wide-eyes turned in.
We stared through the music filled air,
the broken filaments, rotting fruit.
Old oatmeal clinging to
“Whose turn was it, again?”
You couldn’t hear me.
Our cut cuticles and tired joints built this home.
Infertile, we filled the room
with your language.
My crimson mouth produced a sharp accent,
unable to cut away
So, we listened through the tension,
straining our ears.
A tribute to Armstrong played
—Pah, Doo, Bee, Wah, Wah, Babe.
You pulled me up, spinning me
into the rotating shadow of the ceiling fan
The stifling room wrapped itself around the brain.
“Oh, oh. Enough. Enough!”
I wore black to my funeral.
Pearled collar, hiding loose threads.
And so, together, we walked back through
the avenues, offices, and homes.
Dreaming of, dancing with, working on
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