I hold you in my hands
too easily
your life in a few pulpy ounces
cut thin, into digestible,
instructive layers
as with that famous convicted
murderer (and microwave burglar)
who had donated his
spiral-sliced body to science’s gruesome interest
I cling to each tender, dry
slice of you
each white page
a holy communion wafer of
thought
you grow before my eyes
too rapidly
I mark dates and places
you have been
that I will soon visit
to bask in your long departed
shadow
but meanwhile, I have you
still alive
I slow my reading pace
I have fewer pages left
than your age on your death day
I refuse to have you suffer
the indignity of being killed
yet again
I rip out the last chapter and
burn it
and tape the back cover
to the front
it is now a spread-winged
butterfly
hung from my ceiling
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