because like these threads,
her hair would soon become invisible,

felled by a razor.

hate grief all you want, but do not
say it doesn’t create an oasis on
a boy’s cheek—

do not say it doesn’t call rain down—

i know what it means for a body to
squirm underneath a heavy cloud—

of course,
i have crawled through my father’s last moans.

i have watched his ghost cling to
my brother’s legs, begging.

now, i ask a god to shut the eyes
behind my ribcage.

he doesn’t, so
i claw at a picture on the wall there,
drawing blood in its saltiness;

tell me:
of what use is salt that has lost its flavor?

that is to ask: am i still human if all i want is to
be gone, a bird squawking as an abyss

spreads its arms to welcome.
kumbaya. kumbaya.

will my father be there to welcome me, too?