planes zoom onscreen like a stroke slides into brain death.

they look painfully slow when clouds refuse to corral them. yes,

i figured you would point out how little i cared about planes

when you were alive to fly them. you are simply the product

of sourly forbidden wine. if that is as true as i am drunk, my guilt

is coarse but manufactured. on better days i use these adjectives

to describe the fake sunflowers gathering around your grave.

some nights i lose the strength to close my eyes and i wonder

what it would be like to be you. to hold heaven’s breath.

to exhale pure, beloved blood. to have every wicked limb melting

into numbness. to be weighed down by the mass of your own teeth.

to die. every time i think about you and your damn planes

i begin to wash my hands. lather waxy soap between my fingers

thinking about the bacteria trembling amongst your ashes. i never

got to see you burn. it’s been thirty minutes and i don’t know

if you know the protagonist’s name. he crashes his poorly-built plane

and cleans his hands until crimson seeps out. yesterday, i wrote poems

about the day you died. today,




Dimasilaw (he/him) is a Filipino artist and writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Hearth, Pollux Journal, Warning Lines, Lanke Review, and Paper Crane Journal. He is interested in Biblical exegesis, fictional wizards, and world history and literature; he can be found @dimasiiilaw on Twitter.