“I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse did not end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response.” — Joan Didion
death deserves criticism
as much as conception
deserves contempt
by that, I mean
I’m adorned with a hooded sweatshirt
you bought in Dublin
that fertilizes a brutality
that my mother’s ovum
doesn’t recognize
the pitch of your torso
or the dissolution of
your open bones
salvation requires hyperbole
but your ghost, in its
infancy
won’t suffer
any fuckery today
the wind on my face
was cold
our fields
full of rain
God’s palm
full of nails
full of coffins full of holes