By Andreana Faucette

I.
by night-light,
you occupy
the sleep-shaped spaces
in my brain.

I won’t fight –
I indulge fantasy’s futility.
so, i’m a prophet:
i dream of you.

they’re visions,
an amalgam of
twin-tilted-teeth:
incisors impacted at
analogous angles.

because i haven’t
held a funeral —
given you a eulogy, that
before I fall asleep at night

in moments when my breath
slips from uneven
to steady and true,

I can feel you —
one-hundred-something
pounds, sinew and heart and
bone.

for a few inhales longer,
i stay awake,
if only to
remember being
with you again.

II.
I’ve been writing, but not
much poetry –
thinking about the requests
I’d like to make.

since our time is limited,
don’t speak to me in that
other tongue, please —

I want you
juntito a mi.

between fitful dreamless nights,
I write
so as not to beg
        you to fill the cold
        impression left in my bed.

instead, I light a kettle
by my bedside
to simmer,
        to shake,
                to boil
inside its bones of stainless steel.

its whistle-tone melodies
guide me to heaven.
maybe that’s where you’re from,
mi angelita.


III.
i’ve never known how
to say goodbye the right way
at funerals, I'm awkward

I remember
to stand, to stare at
the body, to wait —

search for
traces of life,
parts of a heart kept from me
see if maybe

something’s still breathing,
beating in there.

I’m in mourning-black
but my pills are white,
summer sunrise yellow
ocean- and true-blue

as my shadow slenders
until you no
longer recognize it as mine. ■