Last night, the buzzards and I brokered
a deal: if I spit out all my teeth, they will stop

picking at the scar tissue on my brother’s wrists. Just a bad
dream, my mother murmurs over toast. Only God can raise

the dead. A different morning, we might have discussed
which version of my brother’s body would slam

the screen door on judgement day,
cut across the back porch humming

stamp two boots on the ratted
mat, lean the split-wood

against its lacquered cousin.
Today, the buzzards grace

the rafters. Excavate a basilica
of mourning. Birds speak in tongues.

Babble half-tones. I want to hear
apocalypse bubbling on a stove-top.

Know for sure what will be in the pot
when my brother walks through the kitchen wall —

maybe teeth boiled down to
simple sugars, miracles unscathed.

For my Brother

heads touched, our
dreams were related
by blood.

How We Hold The Dead

“If you dream it—” The Woman says to a no one, no one thing. And a no one, a nothing is a She that is no longer a body and no longer a name, but a vibration space.

Sarita Colonia Comes Flying

...she yearned, like everybody does, to hear her own story, narrated and sung in the voice of those who pray, hope and sing, a story that could not be a novel but rather a song...