by Brandon Shane

Remodel the bones
you’ve been hanging around
like curtains of a missing body,
and sterilize the halls
dragging with enough wallpaper
to elicit memories of demolished
hotels your father once romped.
My mother wore the same red dress
on every joyous occasion,
and she danced in restrooms,
garages, the beds of strangers,
and especially on my father’s
tombstone, where she’d kick
the candles out, and give a speech
about the dangers of kings.
We drank wine,
talked about boys,
and crashed into mattresses
of maple leaves,
staring up at the white sky
knowing I had a parent
but also, a best friend.

I stood at the altar
as she lit fire to the pews
trying to convince
in the way of preaching
how there’s someone
who doesn’t want to pack her
in a fragrant black box,
and she smashed the branches
spit on their business cards,
told me she carries a knife
wherever she goes,
and that we should get ice cream
on the way home.

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Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, York Literary Review, Mersey Review, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.