And it is from this moment that you are going to live.
Think of that. You’re standing in the middle of what used to be a cornfield,
with headstones and wire, combing out a space that says this is where we lay
our dead, take
whatever you want. You have changed: you used to treasure this space to
mourn for the dead, but now,
now you look down on your uncle’s grave, and the wilting flowers placed
there, once alive
and thriving and cut through the stomach, and you see that these are only an
for what lies down deep. He couldn’t care less about what you’re going to do to
him now. So take
your best shot. Throw out your paint cans and make that angel bleed, tear the
with a rake, that moist mouth gaping with earthworms in the nighttime, only
to be fried dry
with the mid-morning sun. This is the moment to prove yourself: Damage me.
Take your keys and grind them down into the stone. Write something useful,
tell the truth, tell
anyone who passes by who your uncle really was, why this angel is so
pointless, where was she
when it really mattered. Tell your uncle you’ll never forgive him, and
somewhere, he’ll hear
the dust fall. Then look into my face a few more times, search my eyes for the
that my lips can’t touch. Make me understand why you’re doing this, and
remind me, once it’s done,
that it’s going to make everything okay again. Lock the gate on your way out.
and get it over with.