“it’s hard to talk about anything anymore
when half your family is dead. it just wells
inside of me.”

“The tears?’

“The internecine speech that dwells within
just waiting to be handed off
to the next offense.“

First it was my right hand, then my left. Would go dead in the middle of the night. It would last a minute. Then a couple minutes. Now four whole minutes. They say it’s a compression nerve. My elbow hurts. I have to clench and unclench my fist over and over to get it to works.

Though sometimes I am asleep on it. Sometimes I am. But most of the time it is laying flat next to me. What do I do with my time? Walk for hours. Hours. Twisting straw in hand. Thinking. There are great moments of collapsing on the bench. Tears. I pet dogs. I talk to the dogs and their owners. Things are better now.

I just write little notes in my phone.

I spend some nights screaming in a pillow.

I spend some days mulling over whether i love you was enough.

“I  knew he was going to die before I left Virginia.”

The last words I said to my dad were I love you and everyone tells me it’s enough.

At night I wander the halls and talk to him; ask if he’s proud his daughter is a successful con artist.

I picture him laughing, cigarette in hand, Wild Irish Rose in glass. 

My hands are becoming crippled and my memory is fuzzy so I figure 

I 

just 

better

fucking 

write it.

My aunt was the 12th dead family member.

It is not great to have such strong superstition in a cursed family so we begin the chant again:

be careful what you say, but more importantly be careful what you think.

They told me to write it faster than you live it but I would rather walk.

“The 13th dead”

the kind that takes whole

neighborhoods

hostage and

leaves the dismayed

picking through the remains

to find their charred family albums

while their babies are off

staring at ash clouds

that block the sun

holding an empty leash

     and at such a

      young age

finally understanding

accidents, permanence,

their environment’s

severity and no exits.

you always remind them

there are no exits.

“grief”

“And you will know the difference between the two?”
“The difference between a truth and a lie?” he asked to clarify. 

“No,” she said. “The difference between how I got here and the weirdest thing about me.”

it was morosity
that ran in the family.
I sat down to the orange tablecloth,
my spanish deck set
    laberinto
every light out,
about sevcn candles lit
and a roller coaster kind of
high, grief taking years to
fully form outside of me,
a birthday present for us,
Matt
and pulled the first card,
    the sun reversed

i’ll always remember that.
october 19th, 2016 and my
brother is still dead.
I swallow a finger full of his
ashes from the black and
white genie bottle I
keep him in and

let the ritual begin.

“the rituals’

shake my head no.

“I don’t intend to hurt myself.”
my thighs are colored: red
and with a finger-shaped
bruise, the smell of
someone else’s
laundry detergent wafts about
me; spectral evidence of being
wanted, licked, used
and
I am windswept,
gutted and frank,
even in malaise, I
fork my tongue to cut:

“I can only cry at hospitals
and then I usually leave.”
lean in, (and they said
be gallant).  he has
blue eyes.
“most of my family is dead.
12 members at least and…”

my throat sore from
conversation. addressing
myself and the little girl in the corner
of the room.
“you can’t see her.”

persisting mucus. it’s an affliction;
laryngopharyngeal and
also, the taste of him
takes my hand.
takes my neck.
takes my waist.
stop talking.
“MA’AM WHO?”

but I just can’t.

where are your friends?
the EMT said to me.

“I just want to be seen.”

“freight” or “nine of wands”

spiders line every corner of my house,

there is honey coating my back

porch, trail of ants

fat with offering

waddle in,

find the underside of my sinkhole 

fat with thread.

the fourth one i call is

“Arachne”

im on drugs all the time,
call it coping,
call it existential
or call it something
fun and playful,
something buoyant,
something whimiscal like
the

“Page of Cups”

(grief)

we prefer rationalizing,
chronicles.
multiple guards around
us, ephemeral
longing that changes
direction but there are
no exits so we stay fashioned
to her tenuous fingers
waiting for the fall.

cards everywhere
scattered for clarity and
I’m batshit high,
mixing herbs with ginger
and then more psyilocybin.
feeling waves form in my gut,
always finding the
King of Cups,
a bath running,
my fear of silence–
an emerging disability.

i write phrases everywhere

and listen to long
chords, piano.
applause.
make words to them–
letters cut from white paper
then burned.
with force, meaning,
avarice.
tonight’s candle.
whatever she is, she
is bright and flickering
like lightning
and sometimes
she is God.

“the sigils”