She is sitting in my living room, legs
crossed, then legs uncrossed. I’m pacing.
You are calling and I’m ignoring. She doesn’t smell
weird. There isn’t any dirt on her pantsuit
or any worms crawling out of her ears.
The only spooky or weird thing
is that she looks kind
of busy. Does it make sense
when I say busy? Like, a video
I took on my phone and then uploaded to my computer
but it wasn’t during prime daylight so there’s this fuzzy
quality to it, like there’s a billion tiny little bugs
making up the colors
on my screen. I ask her if she wants
some water.
I start to cry.
I can’t believe she’s touching my stuff.
Everything I’ve refused to throw away
because I’m too sentimental
Selena and my Trash.
Selena and my discounted tampons.
Selena and my poems.
I write poems, I tell her. It’s nothing.
I want to show her everything.
I’m trying to be a good host. I say this out loud. She laughs
big and loud like saying that just now was the most astute,
the most real,
the most human thing,
like she never thought about it
like that before. I ask her what
she missed the most
about like, being alive.
She stops and looks
down at her fingers. They remind me of my sister’s—
thin and long.
A billion tiny little bugs.
She opens her mouth.