I’d rather you be dead.

Then my grief could be sugar, sweet and fleeting.
From your front porch, I would count
The black Cadillacs forming tidy lines
Down your street.

I could be the new bride
Already mourning for her beloved, descending
With a crown of fair lilies.

Nobody would shrug me away.
I would immediately be shrouded in pleasantry,
Ushered away from my beautiful groom lying
Glassy in his wooden bed,
And be nursed by the veterans of death.

If you were dead, my heart could rise
Like the new buds that shine
In spring light, and thrive
Above your dust.

But I am no bride, and you are no groom,
And my pain is bitter.
Every time you blot me out,
I see the wood and smell the lilies
And my heart lays down
To wither in its own tomb.