the most beautiful part about scenic routes
are radical turns in the absence of rules.
but this is just a theory, as I’ve known
fractures and grieving to result from hurry.
I didn’t attend the viewing, but anyone who did
took the time to tell me just how badly
they wanted to kick the mortician in the face
and ignored my insistence that he did his best.
and we ate cake after the funeral.
the same headstrong teenagers who bashed the mortician,
imitating the pastor’s expected caveats,
establishing suicide was inappropriate.
she wanted the party if she were to go,
the only thing missing was a beach and a keg
full of strawberry-kiwi Snapple, and bursts of techno.
a reminder to appreciate each impermanent beat.
two weeks before it was time to leave,
and one day after her seventeenth birthday,
she told me to never give up on myself,
eyeing the pink of my goldfish eyelids.