I didn’t tell you my suicides
were visiting me in dreams:
the grandfather who took a gun
to the desert, the aunt who moved
all the furniture into the bushes.
People I’d come from, ran from,
pushed back. Others invented
in sadness: bullet holes in the tops
of their skulls, heads hollowed
out like pumpkins. When they opened
their mouths, moonlight shone through
making their smiles tiny flashlights on a hillside,
a search party emerging, calling my name.