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.