This is the ritual
repeat a name
until there is a small grave
worn into the tongue
which is why I debated calling this poem
self-portrait as a cheap shovel in expensive soil
but I guess this fits tooI guess I fit here too
I don’t take up much space
maybe by design maybe out of habit
I say I’m dying I point and say drought
I’m pointing to me most often
sometimes someone else
all the mirrors bleed into each other
it’s hard to keep track
I wonder sometimes how many faces
people think are mine
I close my eyes and the walls
weep dirt someone died again
and I feel it somewhere near my throat
The other week I read something about me
dying I Garvey like that
and someone said it was everything
which I’m sure means The World
I never wanted to be the world to flood this publicly
I never wanted to be the world not this one at least
I am trying to say
that I want somewhere else
that I am only a small purgatory
I am trying to let loose the dead
I am trying not to spend their breath
reminding them only of what was lost
I am trying to be a heaven
I am dying in the attempt
