your coffin or mine

stop dying your way into my poetry.
you are not a corpse,
and this is not your coffin.

so often,
I have held your bleeding palms in mine,
turned your bruised knees into bodies of art,
made roses of the red under your eyes.


so often,
you have been wounded,
been torn apart in battlegrounds of other loves,
ran back to the only home you knew.


back to lines of poetry,
back to being a flower in a garden made only for you,
to sunsets so beautiful you forget how to breathe,
to kisses that taste
like so much honey,
so much summer.


I know better now,
than to open myself funeral house for you.
I know better now,
than to bury you in the back of my throat,
to speak you in every word.

—  Reena B.| There’s no heaven for you here.
we are the strange poets of their illusions

there are
four eyes
in the
coffin

mine &
yours

with
satellite dish
connections to
a trendy Tumblr

tying
gothic
hunger
to
a grand
narrative
of our Salem days

we are
a breathing apparatus
gooey and temperamental

and
the
white coats
of the healing cults
are hungry too as the
administration of a crossword species
of jargon and science stare and gape like Wittgenstein
refusing to talk about what cannot be spoken of … amen i say.

they look
with mad
euphoria … we laugh

and
vanish
under their
dumbstruck
contemplation

do they
really think
they saw us
lying
here
with catacomb eyes
and catatonic flesh?

what
asylum
wishes
to undo
this madness?

not hell
not heaven.

are
we not poets
living in the catalogue
of strange intervals of Time?