Volumes

The language of mourning begins
with an orchestra that only knows one song
it is pulling the strings backwards
so they spell out your name in harmony
light up shoe, half-swollen eyelid,
walkie talkie and a radio tune stuck
on the chorus saying party, and party,
a corpse needs no conductor
when it is wearing shoes it can walk away in

I have already begun speaking
when you come into my living
room and spray the walls with Lysol
I am disinfecting your body in case
it decides to bleed again in case
you need a clean canvas to paint
the walls yellow and white or was it
yellow and blue if memory suffices
the timpani would still be humming
party, and party, and the part of my violin
I never learned would appear easy I know
it is your front tooth and missing strand
of hair next to your unattached ear lobe
frilly pink shirts, dismembered barbies,
hot-air balloon fortunes, and videos I have
of you laughing that do not make me cry
if I send them out to enough people

they will give me their finger bones to strum
eight years two months fifteen days
into the hollow double base of the river
wading through my pelvis brimming white
foam like the coffee in the cup
you weren’t supposed to touch
it sounds like hissing like a train
steaming away from its mammoth
mouth sings a song rolling backwards
from the hills raining snow
and snow and muting snow