Obit in Another Language

You spark
         a drag queen in a death drop.
The runway gleams.
Strobes flicker.
You’re bald.
Elizabeth Regina
         expiring while standing
         in the cancer ward.
Ampersands pour from a champagne flute
         as you fall.
A bell rings.
You win.
Chemo drips from a bag through a tube
         to the port in your chest.
Footlights shatter as judges gleam
         in their simmering electric blue
         velvet armchairs.
Followed to the grave by many
         the obit said
         but that could mean two types of procession.
A stripe of bodies tumbling into a grave
         or a mob of grieved lovers in ripped clothes
         shadowing you.
You’re nude, writhing and gasping
         in a turquoise sequin sea.
You’ve learned only one language.
You’ve opened only one eye.
Magic is the art of believing
         what you see.
You see what you’ll never know
         and turn your head.
You remember the untranslatable
         heat of a lover against your back.
Jut of his ginger furred belly.
You write a poem about him.
You blink and write the miracle again
         containing different versions of you.
You begin another life.

This poem was featured in Volume 2, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.