By Jordan Ford-Solomon
I asked to dig her up 

out of the soft soil 
left long enough 
to boast new grass,
yellow marigolds grow
on the steps of the granite castle 
she slipped under silently,
the coroners hands marching 
a road I had traced with my pinkie
C to shining C, Cervical to Coccygeal 
as he used sign to say goodbye for me

years later,
when her case is no longer cold, 
the state strings the thief of her life-light 
up in union square 
so little girls will start to fear pride 
as much as their mothers do

I asked to dig her up
because no longer
was the cause ambiguous,
a cosmic wound 
you needed stars to stich

when they lifted the oak door 
that I had slammed on sadness 
she was waiting for me,
her hair a golden yellow 
like the fields we almost burned 
with our fireworks and weed dreams
she’s all colored in chrome 
a pierced eyebrow, a gallery of fresh tattoos 
a baby brother with a coke addiction
a list of ex lovers I never knew
a spine I once traced with my pinkie 

There have been many, she says 
And all of them looked like you 

Read Issue 17