Like Love

My bones know no
language. They pray
for formlessness,
for the vocabulary
that will burn their
image. What my mouth
repeats instead–
narratives about vodka,
the year that closed
into black eyes.
Every nightmare,
someone begs to taste
their own embers.
This is the part
of the poem where my
flesh breaks into
impossible sadness.
I think of my mother,
of how eulogies are small
and painfully limited.
In funeral homes, the bones
tell us that death is another
way of saying temporary paralysis .
Resist their language.
The body will never be
anything but a fabulous liar.

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