The Day Nirvana Died

We just so happened to have a newer bus that day, one with a radio installed because our driver’s usual bus was at the mechanic.

Emma

She wore red to church, thin cotton the light peeked through to her ivory slip, mystery’s kiss.

I’ll justify my thievery as need and still ask you to hold me close, wearing something of yours just because I can.

My grandmother. She was a success for being exactly herself and following her loves.

I spool around and around, creating from memory a lifeline between You and I.

Each room, the lights turned off. It’s habit—a faint closeness, my father’s lesson. I never told him God left them on all night for me.

I’ve worn the storm over my skin— vibrant, red. Lightning from my tongue forming electric, magnetic thoughts.

Mountains and tall trees as far as the eye could see. Plains of grass and a wild river stretched out before us.