death cheapens over layered petroleum / so
dense, fishes come upon land to un-breathe;
so dense: we the humans, pococurante—yet we
light torches for the final act of purification.
We pull landscapes into our hungry mouths & spit out
Tiny morsels of heaven. My sister burned the national cake,
Becoming the first among us to die in protest. Her spirit hovers
In the pipe network of our bathroom, like a mess of calloused hair,
Waiting for another baptism down a historical drain.
the earth is a drinker of running blood / and
if we live long enough, each drop of blood
will concatenate, liter per liter,
shape-shifting into black gold.
Her skin renders to a dead serenade: unboxing
& unburying each lost soul at organic phases of white sand.
She bone-feeds it firm, against iron, sojourning toward light,
& Then down the abyss, against ragged realities of life as a wheel.
The axle holds a mound of humus, her ash, while I squeeze extra
Angles into her perspective—her pulse, tongue;
Her lips pursed, poignant, relegating to me all that she was—
Even dead; & all she tried to become.
