written for my grandfather five days before his death.
Grief is mayan skin.
It was never mine, but I wear it now
I grieve the living, ache from my skin
to hold back time with my nails.
ACHE! What agony to wear a dead man’s skin
History gnaws at the last few syllables
of a dead man’s name like raw meat
cooking in the mouth.
Sweating under a someone else’s skin,
some stranger’s grief.
When one grieves the living they gnaw
at the past tense like fish bones. Perhaps
if chewed enough, swallowing won’t ache. ACHE!
What agony to wear a living man’s skin.