in 15 days my brother dies again, time is illusory
disasters shape language, once we were water line
now we are abandon of a season that shapes our survive
in 15 days, the city will be lost of traditions that float us shore
to shore, we who thrive in the chaos of undone for each day numbered
a costume, a song, the way we arrive at the river in droves and will
you play for me, will you dance with me, have you ever hungered so much
in your life for a city as i have hungered for her to be reborn, repeatedly
in 15 days we take the shape of mourning, i don’t know everything suicide
can do yet, i don’t know everything loss can be, i don’t know if holding ‘
together is a possibility, but here we go out on this lonely flight of what else
can we drop into those waters, palms painted morning light & for every death,
some life clings to us, or else we would have to admit we can’t see
at all. Can we admit it? Can we convince grief that timing matters, or is it true
every song cannot be unsung, so deep in the threading, is the walk we take at dawn
from the house to the river, and my brother will be there walking from our mother’s house
to our father’s where he will get the gun, will you lay me down to sleep, for every walking
wake we keep, i am never alone now. Ever i am with you in time, we travel doubly bound
find me near the shore on the morning of no Mardi Gras and i will show you how it looks
to carry all of it, angel of break, to poet is to never heal completely, for i would hold
until there is no shape, till the burns of time erase, the flood inside me sharp with learning
in 15 days, ask me what it means to crossroad these deepest pains, for that too we sing.
