Bedecked in grey and coming down from too much llello—we drink Cuban coffee in Ybor inside a cafe that’s too muchcucumber and yellow. It’s morning. I have to be at church.Too much sucrose, caffeine, something, that time he blewme in Trip Park at some corner of my cognizance. I’m badat one-offs. Endless antique yearning in this ole blood balladwarbling through me. Constant sweat rests in my stigmata—yes!—it must be a miracle, the magic of lacerations appearing,and as we drive to the gaudy cathedral I think: there’s a littlebit of Jesus in my hands; cheesy, I know, the way everythingI hold becomes a cross. For years I said every boy I broughthome went to my youth group, played sports beside me,although neither were true. It’s easy to live as a teen athleteuntil you aren’t. When did I depart this life so small?I swallow the urge to talk, to pour treacle into the void.Funerals and weddings are the two that bring me home;I wear the same color to both. Cliché, I know, the way nothingnew can be said of death. Confession: I thought viewingswere always in funeral homes. I thought the hardness of the pew:avoidable. The skin, soft. I think: I could eat the darkhair from his head. I could kiss his reconstructed lips. I could crawl into the casket and hold him, and no human,nailed to a cross or otherwise, could come down and stop me.Could this world support our weight?…           …thinking of all the witchery of resurrection……the things I could do to get his tongue back in my mouth…I allow myself just one fantasy, one alternate realitywhere I bring him back to me                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   No one comes back. Someone cries.Someone makes a joke. We leave to brunch on cold cutsand the inside of my guts change. Leave the past in its grottoa narrative voice inside me, who is probably also me, says.This bottle of Perrier meets my lips like a glass boyfriend.Bubbles and the hole inside the hand that continues to weep.Should I apologize for my face? It’s like I’m on a Disney ridecalled YOU ARE INSIDE SOMEONE CRYING, and I won’t get off.If a body touches me now I will cast that body into wilderness.I will let the pomegranate rot, let the salt pillar rise like gingivitis.I will not turn around to see what ghost lingers behind me.To recall you first have to enter the underworld, and as I weepin public my gaze only meets the still tableau of no cars,no bodies walking down the street outside. On this peninsula,there are no basements, no way to come back from the soil.