A Death Doula?
these words come with cop
cars; hot frantic alarms
The little girl inside
me grew up
died in your bed.
This town ain’t big enough
for the both of us anyway
the he/him beard and my
I was there as much as I could be
but that’s not true.
a face painted with hair
consents to rhinestones at the edge of
someone else’s reflection
they/them cast spells with mascara wands in secrecy
always had pigtails to play with
dreamed of being a sniper over cherry pie
and buttercups gathered from wet football fields
in helmets that never fit.
There is no absolute
difference between us.
As a man I’ve had rites of silence and
boneshackled foresters; blood meridians,
I had idols with gruff voices, bubblegum cards,
stats, body armor. A battlefield. A legacy of
Death dresses in silks,
oils lifted from altars by soundless fire
says the words
in reference to maternity
cracks an egg into cake batter
plucks flame from your candle as though it were a flower
as though it were a harp string inside a womb.
I have been built to carry bodies
but who is to say I have the hands for that?