Welcome to our city
of ghosts who stepped
into the ether, orbiting
the graves of our collective
phantom pain. Missing
person posters as keepsakes.
Hypothermia kills. Every day
I am closer to zero degrees.
Cool to touch from the cold
shoulder. Bless the ice
queens and kings I so love
who lynch me
in my stonewalled dreams, or shapeshift into
elusive silencers. How sudden
their trigger-happy fingers
I saw no bullets coming.
How silent I didn’t hear
my ribcage crack open with gunshots.
Spare these grieving, sulfur-reeking palms
still holding the slugs because there is
nowhere for them to go. Beseech Bakunawa
to torch this city to the ground.
Let these warm-blooded hands be
its last undoing.
Let the ghosts burn.
Let there be warmth again.
This piece was first published in San Anselmo Publications, Inc.’s chapbook, Bakunawa. You can purchase a copy via their Facebook page.
