when i died, i tried to take the sky with me
i remember the way it felt, sharp and bright
on the scraped skin of my cheek
but when i tried to grab it, i couldn't reach
tired arms ricocheting
off the copper, stiff in the air
i put my wrists to my ribs, told myself
if i imagined hard enough
i could turn bones into silt
ask the sky to feed them
until petals broke through,
blood-red sprigs molting
to rageful mauve
let them devour, i thought
i would rather be nothing
if i cannot keep the sky—
i do not want the world
to keep my bones