The Miracles of Essie Dunbar
when reality is surreal,
the mind doubts.
but a story, without doubt, is that of Jarius’ daughter, and the many other dead-to-life miracles from the scriptures.
my first big loss was Grandmother.
that night, I hoped for miracles, slamming the words of scriptures to her numb body, hoping to make it wake; hoping that the rescinding cold limbs would warm up.
at two, I daydreamed the drama of an archangel sending all beloved ones' rights to their bodies, after tears and prayers disturb His big ears.
at five, I was terrified of the body,
when it's constantly called a corpse, and revered as one.
this death taught me of miracles, not the Tabitha kind, but the dead turning to memories, to dream-fogs, photos.
I believe a loved one's intimacy is to build sufficient memories, to console for their departure, as I am building mine.
I believe loved ones visit in dreams, retaining their cologne or death odour. we sniff their presence like a guard dog tracing exhibits, their wardrobes, in their china wares, in their—
I believe their smiles never rescind in photos, and they're never aged.
but I wish the Miracles of Essie Dunbar for Mother.
when the pound of flesh drops, and is devoid of life, I pray it's only a faint,
so I might stay