Photo by Jefferson Santos on Unsplash
Since the assault has come and gone
I’ve fallen asleep each night
picturing Kurt Cobain caressing
my face, his eyes
two indigo globes near death
or extinction, swathed amid
the vacant sclera
the back of his knuckle
faint against my lids. This started
because I saw the documentary
about his life Montage of Heck
and learned that the anatomy
of the wreck began at the beginning
where all unlove buds
his child heart, a nectar
without casing. If I start crying
he presses his forehead to mine
and like magic, two birds—
sparrows in columbines—sprout out
of love, then lean in to kiss.
It’s the closest we ever get
to sex.
He doesn’t mind this.
Nor my silence, its maw
of trouble, its vigilance
in the teeth
now sharper
now razor-flamed.
But your breath
is sweet. He smiles
small so as not to startle me.
Never has he said
When will you let me leave
this funeral we live in… or
When will you go back to normal?
My ribs ache in this position.
Instead he rubs the sweet pulp
of his heart into my skin
a salve, a lotion
and hums in stilled tones:
Your grief is your gift to me.
I will never be alone.
Remy Ramirez (she/her) has an MA in creative writing from the University of Texas at Austin. Her poems have been featured in The Southern Review, Room, Breakwater Review, and The Miscreant; her essays in Marie Claire and Cherry Bombe Mag; and her celebrity interviews in NYLON, BUST, and Tidal (where she is currently the executive editor). She lives in Sedona, AZ because the thrifting is good and so is the karaoke.