I watched and learned too many times…

Because I have a friend who knows all about death
saw it with my own eyes, as we poked the body
“it,” said disgruntly let him win on things we argued over 
over gender, over sexuality as the waste made
the body morph into the unrecognizable.

What mattered to me, as we stared at the dismemberment of a self being lifted out the river, was holding somone’s hand. I didn’t want to hold his when I have on several occassions. On days we’ve kissed, on days our parents thought we were so cute together, because his hands were as filthy as mine, and he wanted to keep a namesake, when I had let go of all traditional. 

As I ran through the swamp, I ran home to my mother hoping she would recognize me
tell me who I’m from, who I followed, I found that she was perplexed as me and that I should ask her father about her origin.  She had forgotten he was dead like the rest of them.