In my Great aunt’s house
There are standing tall glass bookshelves
That are far out of my reach.
They contain books
Books that look like you
Ancient and Golden.
These bookshelves -
They stand far away
I reach out to touch them
As though I can
But I can’t
I can’t reach them
Father, you’re out of reach
Your voice is a whisper
My ears can’t recognize.
Your side of the bed feels cold
Like a corpse laid in it.
Mother misses it.
Mother misses your warmth.
She wants to hold the stars
But her arms are too short
She wants to whisper a wish
But her voice is a whisper
Your ears can’t recognize.
Every night, She has intercourse with her sorrow.
Her climax is her tears.
Her Sorrow is your corpse.
Together, they birth babies -
Pain, More Pain. Anger, Then More Anger.
Father, send down a ladder.
So I could climb
But let mother be
She’ll climb
Without a ladder.
Everyday she dies
Everyday -
She’s one step closer to intercourse
With your actual corpse.

In the Great God’s house
There are standing tall glass angels
Far out of my reach
They contain Fathers.
One of them looks like you.
Ancient and Golden.

...you can’t communicate with the dead