afterlife in polaroids

I.

There’s a pink motel 

somewhere for me. I 

can’t wait to go haunt 

it.  When I’m dead. I will 

be. Giant pink
eerie lips 

that make soft num-

num sounds.  It
is said 

a pound of flesh will get 

you a lot
less than it did

in your parent’s day.  

II.

I’ve
read there is no kissing in hell. 

III.

It’s a shame lips 

don’t survive. Bones 

become the playhouse 

of ghosts; after 

scavengers discard 

them, worms
bask 

in them, a kingdom 

that the wind scorns.

IV.

What if it all came down 

to this?
subdued spots 

where I could paint your 

toes?  A calm sink to
spit 

into?  Our bodies behind 

closed pink doors.
Crude 

motel shadows at bath. 

Relaxed and wild with
it 

we start, we end our days 

as a mirror image.