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The Language of Dust

how would you bargain with his demise

By bishnu prasadPublished about a year ago 3 min read
The Language of Dust
Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash

The Language of Residue

From one grave to another,

I convey my devotion to you.

—Essex Hemphill

where

do you find

strength

to climb

down the slope

to your sweetheart's

grave

what

do you bring

however, thirteen years

of recollections/

how would you bargain

with his demise

at the point when your pants

loom

in the fall air

like circumnavigating crows

fits rock

your body

like squirrels

shake the red oak

& purple dogwood

branches

while through the buzz

of a helicopter

the thunder

of a raised train

the firework thunder

of a Buddhist help

one can in any case hear

your wails

over and over

unadulterated his name/

Jan

my Jan

indeed, even blindfolded

I would track down my direction

to you

around this

evergreen burial ground

I look at

the engraved picture/

I frame

the weaved hearts/

I smooth out

the misbehave triangle/

the melodic notes

float high

on each side

of your Viking name

alongside dates of birth

& late demise/

verse books

fold intense

on each side

of my voodoo alias

original name and date

unassuming/

I grin at

the "atomic darlings" tribute/

I sit on

the grass appreciative

I will rest

not soon enough

here

above you

in the shadow

of the exchange place

transcending

somewhere out there/

a long time back

after we found out

our status

I beseeched you

to be covered

with me

since I don't accept

in the absurdity

of otherworldly

eternity

"the spirit makes due"

you demanded/

"demonstrate it"

I requested/

"Man is the main animal

known to cover its dead"

you persevered/

"Would it be a good idea for us we act

like canines and pig"

I battled/

"manhattan sovereigns

for what reason would it be advisable for us we be covered

out of every other place on earth in Brooklyn"

you countered/

not surprisingly

my understanding diminished quick/

crazy I shouted

if you passed on before me

I was unable to do

your desire to be

incinerated/

from the get go

you snickered

that you would

outlive me

then speculating

the impossibility

you lashed back

that I generally need

to have things my way

compromising

to supplant me

as your agent/

hurt

I held you hard

as you attempted

to split away

from my hug

while swearing on my all that is holy

I swore

to make you proud/

there was this masochist

ex-minister

who after his darling's

incineration

adding a sprinkle of debris

to the mixture

each Sunday heated a cluster

of peanut butter treats

as he paid attention to mass

on the radio/

without any fellowship

to down as morning jolts of energy

to improve evening rests

to mitigate bad dreams

he wearing a saddle

bowed in the bath

sliced his wrists letting

his blood drop

in the urn

while on the compact disc

callas over and over cried

"vissi d'arte vissi d'amore"/

twit

he reminded me

of something

I would do

like that late morning

in summer

I cracked

taken out my dick

snapped off speedy

on the geraniums

over the grave/

I additionally recall

during my subsequent hospitalization

we observed

this TV report

on voracious organizations

that incinerated cadavers

together

& given families

some unacceptable remaining parts/

open-mouth shaken

you paced the room

we partook in center consideration/

set down with p.c.p.

my throat got tight/

then, at that point, last year

in the candlelight shine

of Swedish meatballs

Haitian rice and beans

commemoration supper

covered with Entenmann's eclairs

you insisted to be covered with me

would respect our relationship/

that evening

we twisted

into one another

mindful

one of us

would leave roses

tears and kisses

on our headstone

the following November ninth/

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    BPWritten by bishnu prasad

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