In Passing

That year you
believed me
asleep and spilled
the beans. Really,
I was dead.
They laid me
romantically bare
on a doused pyre,
the hastily-smithed
diadem tangled
in my hair. In pale
pink slippers,
your dolly
is crying
and pissing. I think
you named her
Lindsey after that
one man, Lindsey
Buckingham.
You used to sing
all night, a nightingale.
Held bell-like
by a farthingale,
footfall hushed
by your pale,
pink slippers.
I was not comatose
up there, I was
roasting. In
your place. I might
come back
as a black pearl,
or a pea of cinnamon
toothpaste from
an aluminum
tube. Or, in your place,
I might come back as you.

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