It’s spring so the sky takes longer to die, jaundiced along the trees. The heat smells like your father, asleep in the yard. Fishes swim between our legs.

Where is the love of your life when you need him? Turned into a fox, stalking back and forth across the palace floor, with a gasoline canister and his unlit match.

So we sing things that make barmaids blush. Your thirsty dress, hogging the flask. Bricks bite the walls of this castle turned tavern, so we loosen our corsets and roll our own smokes.

We will not weep. Because people don’t weep anymore. They cry out or hide or buy chocolates. We’ll dispose of the roses by any means nessesary. During visitations, we’ll pretend that we’re dead.

* Published in Java Monkey Speaks Anthology 2002

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