Biography of My Favorite Dead Writer

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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