back from the dead

or the edge,

if you teach yourself to let it

learn how to hear

sorry

through a locked door

let the words

wind and waft through

a keyhole

if you can

sublimate grief

or rage and

use shit to sow soil

little buds emerge

in spring

i am walking with my palms

facing upwards

your sunlight glares

how to be made of flesh -

malleable

unseen i

am able to move

silently

like nighttime,

filling in gaps

someone

left

behind

when i am beyond

my body i can sleep

with my eyes open

in the desert,

among fine dirt and

coarse sand

let the wind rip

right through me

like ash

on the breeze

i am

to the house spiders in my home

they roost peacefully

in the corners,

at the ceiling

i let them rest

we are content to remain strangers

unbothered by the other’s presence but

never feigning closeness

after a prolonged absence i return home

in eagerness,

rush to run the bath

find her small form

dancing from the faucet

a modest web strains to cling to porcelain

thoughtlessly i turn the water on

and though i do not see that

humble silk abode flush away i know

that she is dead and i have killed her

for the crime of choice

in housing,

poor taste in

a place to create,

or maybe shit luck.

i wonder if, for all my

platitudes

and good acts

i am as guilty as the rest of them

waxing and waning in grief

remembering that we are

home

the apples grow

fat in their trees

and the grass stays

ever green

i unwrap

my hair

and let it fall

down

i could survive