Headline from Brides Magazine // 24 June 2021

One night, five weeks after your funeral
you crawled out of your grave. You crept
across barren streets and gutters half full
with autumn, dragging your legs and losing bits
of belly with each block. I didn’t hear your gritty,
               ceaseless groan when you struggled

through the open window, when you writhed
down the hallway, or at last when you snuck
into my bed. The lack of color that spills
through any given night, spilled through you
completely. The morning after your return I fried
               bacon and eggs neither of us ate. I told you

I missed you because once, back when
the moon could still speak to me, we drove
north and held hands across a hundred
songs and at your wake I slipped their lyrics
inside your suit pocket. After breakfast
               I combed the maggots out of your beard

and took you to my parent’s new house
for dinner. My father asked about last winter
and you didn’t answer. I took you out for drinks
with friends uptown. They asked if we cared
to buy back all the songs we thought were ours
               and you didn’t answer. We drank too much

and you drove us home. Guilt crawls
like a body out of its grave. Tonight
when we crawl into bed, you will ask
if there is anything I need, anything I want,

                                                            anything at all,

                              and I will answer,

                                                            sleep.