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"born to blossom, bloom to perish"

Angel Lopez

Grief, but Make it Sing

Luka Russo

My heart has this hot habit of glaring at me

from across the room, pounding on stucco walls

it throws drummer boy tantrum fits 

turning your urn ashes into nail-biting bangs

beating like

    “hey you, remember?’’

and I whisper back, foreign tongue

feebly coax it into my ribcage.

Telling it to waltz 

    on home.

Telling it to stop 

    all that pounding.

Telling it that 

    people are staring. 

Telling it sometimes

    “goodbye” sounds a lot like “I miss you                

    don't leave.”

But my heart is a deaf music conductor trying

to keep time and I am a ticketless 

schmuck. That muffled clamor, that tiny horror show 

chorus telling me that

heaven must be a concert hall with a

steep cover charge and no refunds, where

everyone whistles 

unending violin notes, reeling like

the last moment I felt happy.

That

opening night, line around 

the block happy. 

That glance up, taste sweet sky sweat 

dripping down happy.  

That last look, what your eyes saw

 before they didn't.

    Happy.

I bet you still look like that. 

And when there's a rest between songs,

those doors swing open, and I hear you

    shimmie shake “hey you.”