We Bite

Our first screams sprout
a muffled storm of shock
and loosely buried rage,

eruptions that birth a quaking
of bone and flesh and thought-
triggering warnings.

“Be thankful!” they say, force-
feeding us silence, as we bite
their filthy fingers off.

photo by Nsey Benajah, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #169: Answering Writing in Writing). Inspired by the rotting madness that is the current state of affairs in the USA and the following lines from The Waste Land: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

Fun Funereal Memories

I remember a hat (way too big for what was left of your skull). I remember two ladies arguing the depth of your love for them over your coffin (the one in the white vinyl catsuit looked more pissed off than sad). I remember trying so hard not to burst into wild laughter, and thinking, You’re freaking loving this, little brother, aren’t you?

Photo by Andres F. Uran, on Unsplash

- it’s funny, the things that come to mind while we remember loved ones taken by death. Last year, on the 11^th anniversary of my little brother’s last breath, my memories were focused on food: his favorite dishes (carne guisada, coconut rice with pigeon peas, potato salad…), his latest favorite song (“Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee). This year, my brain is over-bubbling with (hysterical) snippets of his funeral. 12 years… and the grief (and the love) burn just as bright. 

I hope your spirit remains the life of the party, little brother--ruffle some angel feathers for your witchy sister.  

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #166: Letters/Sounds)