For a boy to die there must be
the proper music, in perfect order
like his body. But for him to able
to die, the world must be in perfect dis-
order, not like the songs propped
like Dali’s crutches, we lean on them
in our grief, the U-shape
cups us under our arms, our necks,
our legs, all the parts of us that
might fall down during the funeral.
For a boy to take his own hands
to his precious body and undo it,
to rip the seams done by his mother
and his father in his making, there must
be no threads trimmed, they must be torn,
they will always gasp awry, crazy across the
gap where the boy used to be,
bramble threads splaying around a
wound for which the only patch is
another hole, and then another,
fill the space with more emptiness,
it is the only way to breathe anymore.
12 years is a perfect age. Perfect,
unless it must conclude that way, no
matter how the audience protests
when the film breaks and the reel
spins and spins and spins and
there is nothing to see, nothing
left but a blank white light and a sound
coming from our lips like animals make.
But what if I were the boy? What if
12 were all the years I could take,
if a dagger hilted itself in my mind
every day, or glass harps broke in my ears,
or the world hollowed my narrow shoulders?
If breathing felt like dying, what
would dying feel like?
Samara Golabuk is a Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Inklette, Eyedrum Periodically, Peacock Journal, Memoryhouse and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry. More at http://www.samarawords.com.