Tear this jagged chunk of obsidian from between my
lungs and smash it. Crush it.
Grind it to brilliant dust
and then shovel it back into the diamond nova,
feed it to the furnace of roots,
to the million-year-old flower
perfect in the sharkâs brain,
the tiny crimson poppy tattooed at the base of her spine,
then walk down to the river and open your hands
so I can touch you through the bars of the rain,
feel the obliterating clarity of skin,
feel whatever we can imagine together,
feel it till we finally understand
that when we die, the soul
leaves the body through the fingertips.