I am not planning my own burial. It is not a shame to sit by the funeral home and wonder how much it will cost me for this body size. Just get me a fake bronze… or an amber wood for a casket instead. I am just inquiring.
Well, you see that on top of my head is a crow. It is really over my head… look up and there it is. Its feathers are planted with black dust… or maybe woven diesel fabric. This is not a deserted place. We are along a highway. I will give you a speckle of Christmas lights in February, pin us down right in the middle and there you will see this house of dead meats. Only this black bird does not creak here if you will listen closely.
Us. I am with my sister. Jesus is in the middle (of the whole god-loved place). The emblem of life. I do not hear her speak… too much fascination on how black Jesus has become and how bright that teal plastic bench under him is.
Eleven is near. At the middle… or end of her story, I am not sure where she is at… she tells a human tiger that was once a prince. It suddenly bores me to remember Lion King… or Beauty and the Beast? And this cat crosses our dangling legs.
Originally published on Multiply