Execution Night

The cigarettes glowed like hopeful lamps in the black raspberry night,

their smoke created a heavy cocoon encasing me.

Lightning bugs shocked my eyes and dappled the darkness that loomed in front of me.

I wanted the rocking chair to cease its creaking racket

instinctively I gripped onto the arm to slow its pace.

My tongue welcomed the tea that sparked my nose with spices I recognized well.

My fingers tasted regrets and hopes that have grown stale.

The full name, Stephanie Diane Beckner, was executed many times on Quail Hollow Drive.

The lightning bugs were dormant that night.

At the zoo, the giraffes waited with lilac and mauve hued tongues extended,

contorting their heads for a snakey lick.

But I couldn’t reach them because my ribs expanded to give me false notions of obesity.

That was the custom, come dawn.

The New Pornographers of opinion and melody

the reminded me that I can’t always get what I pry open with bitten fingers.

Bleeding through my hair, I whistled bubbles

Stephie was on the wall breaking and popping them all.

When the day comes sprinting toward me sooner than I expect,

my silky bones will weave once again in and out of sinews singing.

I will have to see snow before another tear falls down my cheek,

Yo necesito a ver tú en mis sueños, o yo mataré.

While the snow will gossip,

and the light will beg me to join in,

I’ll just go back to the night for another hopeful lamp cigarette.