You were always funnier than most, so I’m waiting
for this joke to land. When I hear the phrase “grave
error,” I think of you being lifted out of the ground
& your mother loving you better. I think of your
tombstone hitting your stepdad over the head.
Grave error: the words slipping from their mouths
as your skin turns back elastic, as flesh reattaches
to your bones. Old friend, it’s been 10 years.
Grief would be easier if you were dead. Instead,
our songs, your voice, the sticky dampness
of your skin is vivid enough in my mind that I
can make a reader see you like I did. They can
feel the goose bumps forming on my skin as you
lifted me up out of my misery. I still see things
& go “damn, he would love this.” I still expect you
to come across some corner while I’m walking
& tell me it was all a grave error. You’ve been alive
this whole time. The poet wants their words back
like I want you to connect the setup to the punch line,
tell me why I’ve been sleeping with a corpse.