palm avenue

A SHORT STORY ABOUT THE TUESDAY WHEN I CAUSED AN ACCIDENT, YOU DIED, AND NOTHING FELT LIKE MOURNING

i was drunk screaming and you looked like Eve after the poison. the face we never see.
at the bus stop right on Palm Avenue, i saw your coffin. you know the one.
(you were birthed after the pregnancy of a street mouse.) you died trying to become ART:
whatever that was to you. and i am here. eating your heart right out of its home.
bleeding like your mother did when you tore her open. and screaming just like that.
screaming like there was no breathing left to do.

i want to ask somebody why you died the way that you did. so
i kneel with a humble mind before the Moon. ask her what she means when she says, “DEATH.”
and she starts to yell, like: “HEY, ITS ME, GOD / I FUCKED THE EARTH
WHEN SHE WAS JUST A SEED / DID YOU KNOW? IF YOU TOUCH SKIN SOFT ENOUGH /
IT WILL FLOWER. / NO QUESTIONS ASKED. / IMPREGNATED. / and
you could be ALL OF IT if you would just remember me ANY OF THE TIME! /
by the time this whole THING IS OVER /
you will forget.”

and then she cries and cries. and says that where i am sitting, right here,
is where millions of deaths have happened / and i assume she’s talking about Earth
until the guilt of not saving him from suicide holds me underwater for too long.
and i have to be home by dinner! so i thank her for her resilience and forgive myself. but
…i should not ask a limb how to be a limb. i should not have asked God how to believe.
and it gets confusing. being four things all at once. the death, the faith, the embodiment.
and of course the Ego. a twisted thing. a thing that could write a whole poem on its own
trying to convince you that it was God. convince you that a death means something.

—  convincing God with your own Ego