Dia De Los Muertos… a poem

She finds us
crippled gnarled fingers
on hands black like the night
we’ve fallen into
the grace we’ve fallen from,
into,
this…
is it,
singular existence in a world of chaos
we cry and make songs of our lungs
sirens to the
spaces around us where
there may or may not be on-lookers
witnesses to the tragedy that was our
loss,
exit,
exhaled into the
distance like wind
lost on the curves of stars and mountains
and who can blame us for not being found
before now,
before this.
tragedy unfolded into dollar bills
and paced into the concrete
tracks
and
trails
rails
and lines
marks made like that
those
on arms
in books
on canvas
art just the same,
she lays us to rest with the same hands
we don’t remember as our own

The creators of our own
demise
death
muerte
murio

silence,
deafening.

But if stars fade in the night sky
and nobody is around to see them
did they ever even exist at all?

 

Riddle me this,
that,
tell me a story

Or sing me a tune…

- sing me to sleep
and let’s see if I wake,
if not, then who knows
who keeps this soul,
so be it.
bewitched

Between

Brittle breathes

and dirty fingertips,

relegated to the in-between

where records spin on repeat

label me a forgotten corridor.

 

Yo canto,
in the corridor between
my flesh and rib cage
find me there,
baby bitter bird
bent on being noticed before I leave this place,
before she finds me
that lady death,

 

dancing on the keys of an ill-tuned

ain’t it grand kind of night
looking at the stars and wondering
while I wander…

 

Riddle me this,

That,

Tell me a story
or sing me a tune,

Please,
oh please, I simply request
implore

And demand this of you…
I never, want to go silently,

 

into, the night.

 

*Day 142 of 365 Poems Inna Year
a little bit behind, I know…

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