Unpenned

you could say we lost our child
or heaven gained an rogue, or parents’ bodies
doubled and shaking mimic the broken stalks
of a species native to hell, or say Christmas 

cards languish unpenned 
in shamanic silence, tucked 
in a box of locks 

you can say we gained a PIN code
pecking out grief’s numerology, attached 
to every account, every transfer reborn 
and wet like fine hair freshly emerged

but, whatever you say, say enchiladas 
are still enchiladas, and music
is still loud enough to stir the ash
and see the moon and say, “the moon!”

say statistics are coughs, and say we
are side-eye dancing, glancing 
into oblivion, you could say

when hands are held tightly
to keep ourselves up, it’s the guts 
that punch back, or you

could say that is a bold face
for a lotus in December 

_________

Friday Writings #199: gut-punch