YOUR BONES
were so predestined to be buried
that we hardly noticed when they were laid to rest
finally

six feet below the ground.

As a girl you used to play, laughing in graveyards
up until the day you were burned badly

then reprimanded for sticking sticky child's fingers
into cap holes of candles

embellished with The Virgin Mary.

Her scent would always permeate whatever thoughts you had 

and coil itself around your troubles like a life vest,

like all the times you gripped your mother's hand at take-off, 

in anticipation in place of fear

and the waves of exhilaration that final night,

murder weapon gleaming in your eyes like a cataract.

You see, you used to wander graveyards,

back when you were young.

To smell the distilled gas of holy wax, dripping,

no longer in remembrance, but resolve,

to get that prickling feeling you always got

right below your hummingbird clavicle

and couldn't quite name,

but thought most closely resembled loneliness,

then belonging. 

You were intelligent so you must have known 

how the living suck from the deceased

until there is nothing left.

Now I picture your bones already brittle

because you lived planning your death.