The four-year-old points a finger, dares you to speak,
dust particles whirl then spark in the afternoon sun.
Baby girl sees right through you. I invented
the silent treatment, recognize your game, even
in the hall, where now I listen but never hear you,
only her. She answers her own questions:
Did you meet her imaginary fruit bat? You did.
Is Jupiter still your favorite planet? Sure.
My love, I could send our daughter to her playroom
with Bats of the World or that planetarium thing
the three of us orbited for hours, the one where
built-to-scale wonders glow with the colors of rust
or vapor. If I could get you alone, and if you weren’t
a ghost, I’d stick my tongue down your ever-loving throat.
Our stunning glitters are made up of a chunky crackle glitter
which catches the light beautiful giving the ultimate sparkle
effect on a sunny day –The Glitter Coffin Company
I’ll never know the inside of one.
When I die, someone will ash me
off the stern of a shrimper in the Gulf
of Mexico or use my body to grow a tree.
But I still dream the processional dream:
pallbearers and me, a Las Vegas showgirl,
a fallen honest-to-god star. In the event
of this good death, they could sugar me
into a casket glittered like a speedboat—
sharkbite or sunrust in a slow crawl
behind the motorcycles’ blue flash.
Sexy self-constellation. With my scratch
off winnings I order a box in each
of the twenty bespoke colors. Passersby:
Kill your engines for this catchpenny
magpie. Be still my beating heart.