i know a girl who once called
you the good uncle. and she
didn't have her head in the clouds
didn't live in a fairytale, like rapunzel
or juliet. she was more of a bacardi
shapeshifter version of mercutio.
she had hair you couldn't rip
through with a chainsaw. still does.
she watched people walk slow when
they gawked at art or were in love. watched
them like she does you, taking a knife
to your strawberry wrists or clay heart.
she knows you're going to float to heaven
with sylvia, the one with the handgun super
glued to her shattered forehead. you're just like
that woman. the girl once called her the blood
thirsty grandmother. the tyrant.
what if they don't fly fish in heaven
