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Immortality
I died.
I am ash scattered,
half-heartedly, across
a parking lot
by my sister's boy, who looks
like her, not me. He is not
my legacy. Winds
have sown my least substantial parts
at the edge of a tarmac
blanket—my dust will
nourish weeds.
I did not die.
Machines
breathed for me, while tender
cuts separated flesh
from flesh.
Quick hands proved
my vital organs. Science
dispatched me,
dry-iced,
to answer prayers—
my heart still beats.
The Man Upstairs
I hear his footsteps
overhead, past midnight. Smoke
from his cigarettes gets
mixed in with my air. His ragged
hair offends. I am disrespected
by his friends.
His music intrudes
upon my privacy. He watches
Court TV at three a.m.
in purple underwear—I swear
he never draws his drapes
he reads my mail strange
garbage infiltrates
the pail—
His name is Rafael.
Yesterday, after leaves
had slicked the path,
after my fall,
he took my hand.
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