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
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