Blue like Iceland's opaque lagoons or blood vessels under pale flesh the candle vomits blue wax burns down I watched the wax pool and drain pool and spill for twenty minutes about the same amount of time I sat listening to hymns watching for your coffin lid to wiggle creak open an inch enough space for an arthritic finger to show ice blue, crowned with a coral-painted talon Some animals lay next to their dead and we laid over ours through wood, varnish, metal hinges. Six-feet of soil I remember lying awake at night hearing you breathe next to me and then stop I prayed to Jesus, the beetle, and you exhaled. Yet the coffin remained shut. I will find a coral fingernail in the soil we buried you under and I will wear it in a locket around my neck our secret a message that you are now some place where coral nails are not needed. Nor fingers the color of blue lagoons, for that matter. ✱✱✱
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