One More Numerous Loss
by Musa Alves Guillerman
I was at your funeral first, a painful thing to do.
It was days before you died, and you knew it too.
There was no more hope, or Chance, only shades of blue.
They burned you like a piece of paper. A little book of truths.
I often visit graveyards of people I once knew;
This one in New Orleans, has decades of dead mes and yous;
Ghosts of secrets babbled, ghosts of makeout past. Pursed lips. Sunk ships.
Wreckages too deep to repair or grasp.
“Too intense. Too obtuse.” Glister vs. bister. Either way you lose.
Dead. Dead. The whole community’s dead, sister.
I’m kidding. I know there’s no such thing as family.
One mother. No father. Who’s hand is limped in mine clammily?
“Intimacy?” I remember now! Just some shadows pantomiming.
Opinions span my lifetime. Passing pain for jokes a pastime. Me,
playing “boorish,” “fearless,” “cunning.” Tho, they don’t have speaking roles.
Background characters in a life, or floaters in the eyes of beholders.
Slogging through the graveyards. I don’t see many I miss that much.
Better they’re there than here–– “god” forbid they get in touch…
People still die on me, almost everyday. But it’s easier now;
I can alone and lively say.