Entangled Life


Since my parents died,
every death, the wilting of flowers, the ladybugs
in the vacuum bag, even historic deaths
of monarchs, celebrities, or neighbors,
hits like a siren stuck—
an empty vase falling . . . falling, displacing the air
in my ears with ringing in a withering murmur
of wretched families in limbo,
before touching the marble floor never
to be whole or rounded again,
no golden joinery here,
the same stone that sits above them,
their ashes now,
from the stifling afternoons of summer
to the icy blacks of winter—
an imperfect eulogy for the ones
who gave me this life, this ink,
this set of begrudging tears.
The wet face disabusing me
of the illusion that I can still reach them,
maybe through prayer, or palace intrigue,
or the white tilt of the bishop’s proper mitre.
Mourn her,
          who reflects us in the whiskey’s grenade decanter.
Mourn him,
          her gaffer and keystone since high school.
Mourn me,
          her tree climber, a beachcomber, their fruit,
          but who’s adrift
to watch the effervescence of beauty now,
always high,
always from a discrete distance—
as far as needed
to obscure the truth
about the iron black and gold filigree
spilling words out from the crypt:
forever together everlasting
that everything around me is moving
toward the undersea waterfall,
a colossal cataract
of urges trying to find, trying to stay,
trying to be wherein no one knows
the swirling and inviolate words spoken to me
by their upswept, enraptured tongues.

About The Author

Mikal Wix has the visions of a revenant from the Appalachian closet. He has degrees in literature and creative writing, and has words in the Berkeley Poetry Review, Beyond Queer Words, Tahoma Literary Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Angel Rust Magazine, & others.