you take your radio 

down to the sea

Sunglasses grimy with dust. Pencil sharpeners from different eras.
A VHS recording of my seventh birthday.

I remember how much we watched the stars 
in our pre-screen silence, spotting sister sigils 

Violet ladies of night dreams stroll around the rooms.

Because your lungs are heavy as deadwood
and your eyelids wax and wane, words caught 
in your teeth like a dark art, a snake plant

Let’s imagine your ashes getting peppered 
with marijuana and smoked all night long

Outside the 
courtroom
we wait for
the public 
defenders

Your husband’s ghost wrestles an Iberian Ibex outside your house. He sports three bellies these days, including the two protruding from the sides.

We put a trash bag over his head.
He’s a more acceptable punching bag
when he doesn’t have a face.

I lay my mosquito gnawed neck on the rusty railroad tracks and yank down my tighty-whities.