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

late.