"ON WATCHING THE AVIATOR WITH MY GRANDFATHER'S GHOST"
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,