I think everyone’s glad I’m dead, said the stripper
with the caved-in face. Her fingers were bone with no
sinew. She flapped her arms at the two wrens
caught up in the rafters and staring down
on the empty dance hall at the Möbius Strip Club
of Grief. Tiny chirps rained like sparks
from the electric saws in their little hearts. No one here
is glad anyone is dead, but
there is a certain comfort in knowing
the dead can entertain us, if we wish. We line up
outside looking drowned, telling whoever comes
our way that we are falling very fast. And
we are fine. The dead are wrinkled as jet streams
cutting across the room with glasses on their
heads, laxatives under their tongues—they
keep the air cold inside, so one can smell their breath.
Their hair is still growing, crackling out of their skulls—
and we file in, in ones and twos, clinging
to our tragedies, finding our favorite face—
which looks back at us with indifference, contempt,
chill disappointment. You never came much
when I was alive, says one with red hair, lying
on her side like a Botticelli on the stage,
and now you want a piece? $20 for five minutes;
I’ll hold your hand in my own. I’ll tell you
you were good to me.