—YOUR HEAD IN YOUR HANDS, AND YOU COLOR ME BLUE

what to

   bring to

 my funeral

how can I be so bleak

     six feet under

starlings swirling

      like a spray of pepper

above ground while

      you curl the

ends of your hair

     your bangs perhaps

spritz and flounce

      oblivious again

I know it’s just me

     not you

not you    

     why should I

or you care

     when I’m dead

and this soil tastes

     as terminal

as another

     day-old obituary

and yeah I know

     I keep repeating

myself

      myself

myself

      that’s what happens

when you’re dead

      and there’s nothing

to do

     boxed in tight

bones beating the casket

     nuggets of dirt

caving down as I hear

     a muffled voice in

my ear that sounds

     a lot like yours

saying, I love you

     or, Fuck You

it’s hard to know

     stuck here in oblivion

so will you tell

     me which

please?

     please?