by Kasandra Larsen
pretend your heart is green but seeded
even deeper down than simple grief;
nudge the dust underneath like a brother.
never wipe your feet. shuffle. Howl
like smoke, slow and curling into rough
punctuation. if you’re tired, having trouble
with the crying, can’t locate and unlock rage
hidden in your voice box, gather hate
saved in your chest and let it fly. connect
with the dead deliberately. never raise
your eyes. only palms are allowed to reflect sky,
skin of the planet turned outside-in, blue
egg of atmosphere holding in stitches, black
and crooked. never glance at the body,
if there is one. it’s family who pay
for you to wail, not to look. Disappointment
will follow unless you sprout the occasional
ragged shout, followed by a kind of choking;
you’ll tell the time by how your ribs burn
after only a few minutes. focus on this.
not on ending. never on hoping.