88 (Mi Mea)

I kept a lock of her hair, which I used

to stuff the head of a doll I repaired,

which is here on my desk to pierce with pins

because aren’t we friends? We’ll always be

friends, friends to the end, hidey hidey ho,

my friend, sweet friend, who has no darts for me,

my friend, sweet friend, who won’t hold up the phone,

so I can hear her breathe, mentiroso,

and exist in her follicles and spit,

and be there just ahead in her next chair,

in a waiting thought, ripened by a bruise.

Por favor, un momento con mi amor, 

si, mi amor, mea memento mori.